


My Name is Legion (in chapters)

by SarahLynnB



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Epic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:54:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 203,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23052805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahLynnB/pseuds/SarahLynnB
Summary: In a fit of drunken rage, Chris commits an act that leaves the youngest of the Seven crippled and threatens to split up the group - leaving him an outcast from Four Corners and everyone he cares about forever. Can he find the road back to redemption before everything he values is destroyed?
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

Chris Larabee was drunk.

It was two o’ clock in the morning, a warm, sticky night. Chris Larabee was sitting by himself in the empty saloon, ignoring the evil eye the bartender was giving him and trying to get the pain to go away. But it wasn’t working.

Well, the liquor was working. Chris laughed sourly as he hunched over the table, letting limp strands of blond hair fall into his bloodshot eyes as they stared at nothing. The liquor was working just fine: he could hardly see straight. Two of empty Red Eye bottles sat next to him, and as long as he could still form words, Chris intended to keep the bottles coming, and drain them. The whiskey was fine. But the pain was still there.

 _Dammit_. Chris blearily reached for the half-full bottle in front of him. _Why can’t I just die and get it over with?_ Didn’t someone say once you can die of a broken heart? Then why can’t pain kill you? Because tonight Chris wanted to die, very much. Or kill someone. Either option would do.

And the day had actually started out half-way decently. It was a bright, sunny day, not much going on. Chris had decided it was time for a haircut, and ran into his friend Buck Wilmington on the way to the barber’s.

Hey there, Chris, Buck had said. Hate to waste a beautiful day like this, what say we go ridin’ later?

Buck had a general good nature that was infectious, and his ebullient smile had cut through a few layers of the shell Chris had thrown up around himself, and he’d said all right. So they’d saddled up their horses and ridden out, after Buck had stopped by the jail to tell their friend and the youthful sheriff of Four Corners, JD Dunne, where they were going. Chris suspected Buck also wanted to tease JD about not being able to go along, but he’d stayed outside while Buck talked to JD and didn’t really know.

And so they’d ridden out, and it really was liberating to be riding free on the range with Buck, just like the old days almost, when they were both bachelors and lived only to feel the sun in their faces and the wind at their backs. The old days, before Sarah, before Adam, before the fire...

Chris cursed and took another swig of whiskey, grunted at the raw pain as it stung his throat. He’d almost been able to forget today, for a few blissful hours life almost seemed normal. Then they saw the wagon...

They’d heard it first, the thunder of horses’ hooves and the wild jangling of bits and bridles, then they saw it, some distance ahead of them - a covered wagon and a two-horse team, going too fast, with no one at the reins. And voices inside, screaming for help.

Buck had shot forward right away, like he usually did, racing toward the wagon like he thought he might actually catch it. Chris followed, and they did catch up with it, caught the flailing bridle and pulled the horses to a stop. It wasn’t easy, but they did it, and Chris had just wanted to ride on, but Buck wanted to make sure everyone was all right, and leaned into the canvas hollow to smile at the occupants inside and introduce himself, and offer his hand. The woman inside accepted it, and climbed out, badly shaken.

It was Sarah. And Adam.

But no, it wasn’t. Chris took another scorching swallow. The woman and her son didn’t even resemble them really; she and the boy were both fair where Sarah and Adam dark, but they were both young, just like his wife and son, and so frightened that Buck fell over himself to reassure them that everything was all right. The woman thanked Buck, touched Chris’ arm and thanked him too, and Chris had flinched. Something about the whole episode had unsettled him, the mad dash, the horrifying rush of adrenalin, it brought back those haunting memories of the morning he and Buck had ridden back from Mexico to see smoke curling above the trees and he had felt that same rush, that same thought, oh my God something’s wrong, very wrong...

Chris had already started to walk back to his horse - he’d already decided it was time for a good, long drinking binge - when another horseman appeared, scared and out of breath. At the sight of him the woman called out a name and ran to him. The man all but leaped off his horse, and they met in a fierce embrace, then there was a rush and tumble of words, the man apologizing, asking if they were all right, the woman crying, glad her husband was safe.

Then Chris watched as the boy ran up to his father, wrapped his little arms around the man’s leg, and called him papa in a high sweet voice.

Adam’s voice.

And that’s what did it. Chris had simply walked back to his horse, gotten on, and ridden back to town. Once there, he walked straight to the saloon, grabbed a bottle, and started drinking. And he’d been there ever since.

He figured Buck had noticed when he left, ridden some distance behind him, then pretty much warned everyone away. Chris knew Buck didn’t really understand the man he had become, but he didn’t care. His heart had been cut in two when he heard that little boy’s laugh, and he was just going to stay there and drink until his heart either healed, or disappeared completely.

The clock chimed two fifteen, but Chris barely noticed. Nobody had been in to check on him, and he knew why. They were afraid of him, afraid of this miserable man and his tempers. Buck had probably said, watch out, Chris is really in a mood today. Chris had deliberately chosen a seat that put his back to the door, just so he wouldn’t see the concerned faces that he knew were peeking in from time to time, but coming no closer. Even Vin had stayed away. Look out, Chris is on a bender...

Chris took another long pull, and thought some more. He could feel his bad mood spiraling downward, feel himself sinking into another black depression, but didn’t care enough to fight it. That couple looked so happy with their son, and Chris and Buck had saved them. Somebody could have saved Sarah and Adam. The ranch house burned for an hour or more, why hadn’t anybody come to see what the fire was about? Because nobody gave a damn, that’s why. Nobody cared if he never felt his wife’s hair again. Nobody cared if he never felt the gentle pressure of his little boy’s arms around his leg, or a small voice joyfully calling him papa.

Nobody cared.

Chris finished the last of the bottle, thought about getting another one. _Damn bartender, where the hell did he go?_ Oh well. Chris slouched amid the glass forest of empty bottles. I can wait till he comes back. I got all night.

The whiskey was continuing its savagely soothing course through his system, and Chris could feel himself detaching, separating from that jarring hurt. But he hadn’t passed out yet, and that was what he was aiming for. He wasn’t far; as he looked around the bar, Chris marveled at how it was losing its edges, the tables and walls and low-lit lamps melting together like sticks of wax on a hot day, blending together in a weird, distorted way that made sense only when you were drunk. Kind of like the way he was thinking...

Chris sunk his chin into his arms, wrapping himself around the depression that had been his faithful companion for three years. His only companion. Well, no, that wasn’t quite right, at least not lately, but at the thought of the men he’d been riding with Chris grunted in disgust and fished around the table for a bottle with a few drops left in it. Finding one, he tilted it upward and drained it, then set it back on the table with a rattling bang.

Tonight Chris hated the men he rode with, hated them with an almost unreasoning fury made liquid by the huge amount of whiskey he’d downed. He hated that Buck didn’t seem hurt by such an obvious reminder of Sarah and Adam; hadn’t he said he loved them almost as much as Chris did? And yet he hadn’t been stabbed in the gut today, like Chris had. Despite his loss, Buck had retained the giddy, happy personality he’d always had. In fact, sometimes it didn’t seem to bother him at all. And Chris hated that Buck couldn’t share his agony. Didn’t the bastard care about him at all? So, Chris resented Buck.

And then there was Vin. Vin was dependable, solid, always there for Chris. Quiet, sympathetic, Vin could always be counted on, and usually Chris appreciated it, but tonight it bugged the hell out of him. What right did Vin have anyway, being such a steady presence? Who the hell told him to watch Chris’ back all the time? Maybe Chris wanted to die - guess Vin never thought of that. The worst part was, no matter how angry, drunk, or miserable Chris got, Vin never pushed, never lectured, just gave Chris a small smile and arranged himself somewhere nearby, out of sight but definitely there. As if Chris deserved a real friend.

And what about Nathan, and Josiah? How in the world could they stay so focused, so calm when the world was full of such rotten people? Why would Nathan take five seconds to care about anybody, after what he had gone through in the South as a slave? His life had to have been a nightmare, but still he was cheerful, helpful, always keeping one eye on everyone else. Why wasn’t he bitter? Why wasn’t he angry? And Josiah too, always so damn even-keeled, working on that church like somebody cared if it ever opened again...he always claimed he’d lost his faith, but who did he think he was fooling? Chris had been religious, once, but he’d thrown it out after the fire, and tonight it infuriated him to think that anybody - especially a hired gun - could hold on to the slightest shred of hope for the future. Josiah wasn’t stupid, so Chris concluded that the ex-preacher knew something he didn’t. And that made him even madder.

And Ezra! How the hell did that man do it? Chris’ bleary eyes scanned the bottles for a drop, two maybe, something he could consume. Ezra could turn his feelings on and off like a faucet. Ezra had no feelings, only con games. He knew how to use people, and was good at it, and it enraged Chris because a lot of the time he didn’t like Ezra - but he desperately wanted to be him. Shamefully, Chris longed to be like the aloof gambler, someone who had no memories to cry over, no loved ones to miss, no past to reckon with - only a present full of gain, and a future he couldn’t care less about. Chris thought about his future, a long, dark tunnel that yawned before him tonight, how long would he live if a bullet didn’t find him first? Fifty, sixty years? An eternity of waiting to die while being swallowed up by the writhing pit of memory.

All the bottles were empty, but Chris wrapped one sweaty hand around the closest one anyway, taking comfort in the cool, smooth glass against his hot skin. And then there was JD. JD, who’d come all the way west just to be a gunfighter. Just couldn’t wait to get shot and end up dead in a ditch somewhere - oh, but that ‘s not how he thinks his life is going to end. Thanks to those ridiculous dime novels he read, JD still thought there was something actually noble in what they did, some honor to be found in spilling your guts all over the desert floor. Stupid kid. He’d find out soon enough. If he was lucky, he’d be dead by the end of the year. If he wasn’t, he’d get his ideals stomped on just like Chris had, and have sixty years of endless, torturing memories to remind him that not only was life not fair, no one gave a damn that it wasn’t fair. Good people died, bad people lived, and none of it meant anything.

Two-thirty. The bartender began going around the room, blowing out the lights and clearing off the tables in a not-so-subtle way, looking at Chris every so often as he did so. But Chris was caught in his drunken reverie, and sullenly ignored him.

Good people die, evil lives on. Sarah was dead, Adam was dead, their killer was still free. Chris’ eyes narrowed as he remembered Cletus Fowler, the man who’d admitted - bragged! - that he’d killed Chris’ wife and son. That cocky swagger, that slimy smirk - and he had lived, laughing, while Sarah and Adam died in the flames. Chris’ mind wandered around, and other faces came to him, floating in the air it seemed - Colonel Anderson, who thought nothing of shooting a man in the back, and nearly killed Buck before Chris had gunned him down...Stuart James, a wealthy cattle baron who had almost gotten the lot of them killed...the warden at the prison where Chris had been unfairly incarcerated, a sadistic pig of a man who beat the prisoners, beat a sick and weakened man Chris only knew as Inmate 46, would have killed him if Chris hadn’t intervened, despite being half-dead from abuse himself...the warden had backed off, but he hated Chris, almost killed him, and Chris couldn’t even fight back, not the way he’d wanted to...they were all alive, or had been until recently. And Sarah and Adam were dead. Which two of his enemies’ lives were so important to God that He would rather they stayed, than spare the two that were more precious to Chris than anything? What would it have hurt, to just let them live...

Chris took another drink, and felt the world blurring away.

  
  


It was after two-thirty, and Billy the bartender wanted to close up. Trouble was, that damn gunslinger Chris Larabee was still sitting there like he didn’t give a hoot that Billy still had to clean up the place. Well, the hell with it. Billy wanted to close, and he’d stalled long enough. Screwing up his courage, the bartender walked over to the table and moved to tap Chris on the shoulder.

Without warning Chris jumped up, as if shocked. The empty bottle shook on the table, and the other two rolled off and broke on the floor. Billy looked at Chris, uncertain fear in his eyes; he knew Chris of course, had seen him drunk many times, but never this bad. The man’s eyes looked...dead, as if they weren’t seeing the world anymore. The bartender saw the bottle on the table, added the few that were in bits on the floor, and slowly backed away from the wasted-looking black-clad gunslinger with the tears in his vacant eyes. Chris glared at him, and through him, for what seemed to the bartender like a couple of hours. Then he turned around unsteadily and staggered out into the street. Damn drunk, Billy the bartender thought, and went to get his broom.

  
  


It was a warm night, but humid, so the street fires gave off very little light as Chris tried to find his way to his room. There was smoke everywhere from the sputtering fires, and the acrid tang made Chris think of that awful morning, the still-smoldering house, the soul-numbing discovery...as he stumbled down the dark-blue street, Chris blinked against the stinging smoke, staggered and caught himself against a post as it choked him. The world was spinning, pulling him downward, and when Chris tried to look around him he was astonished that there was so much smoke, and he couldn’t see the ranch house - he couldn’t be that far from it, could he?

It was too dark to see much of anything, and Chris groped around the brick building to his left, found the long, narrow alley that he knew was the back of their smokehouse. Trying to peer through the suffocating smoke he walked into it. _Dammit, where’s the ranch house? I know it’s close, here’s the smokehouse, and the wagon stall is just over there..._

It was pitch black in the alley, and Chris had to put one hand out, touch the damp brick, to find his way. Sarah. why hadn’t she noticed he was gone and come looking for him? He smelled the smoke again, and an alarm sounded in his mind. _She’s in trouble. They’re both in trouble._ Chris tried to run, but he could barely stand. Fowler was back, it was happening again, no -

Chris heard footsteps and looked up, but saw no one. He tensed, swallowing. They’ve come back. Maybe Sarah isn’t dead, maybe Adam isn’t dead, I can save them this time. Chris saw a shape coming toward him, a mere shadow back lit by a faraway fire.

It was one of Fowler’s men.

Chris shrank against the wall, wanting to be invisible so the man would pass him by. Chris could go get Sarah and Adam away from there. Then he’d come back and finish this bastard. Chris’ eyes narrowed as the figure approached. _You son of a bitch, you killed my wife and son._ He felt the familiar rush of hate-filled adrenalin, felt it consume him until he had to fight every nerve in his body to keep from jumping the man, and strangling him. But no - Sarah and Adam. Wait.

The shadow seemed to see him, and paused; then it walked on. Chris let out his breath. _Thank God that pig didn’t see me._ He tried to slip away, but stumbled a little bit and fell, and before he could right himself he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, heard a muffled voice call his name. Fowler’s man had him.

And Chris Larabee snapped.

Roaring so loud it hurt his ears, Chris reared his body backwards, slamming his assailant against the brick wall with all his strength. Before the other man could even react, Chris whipped around and slugged him as hard as he could, first in the face, then in the gut, smiling in grim satisfaction as he felt the flesh cave in beneath his fist. The other man slumped against the wall, then tried to get up, but Chris grabbed him, and suddenly it wasn’t Fowler’s man at all, but Cletus Fowler himself who was trying to get away, and Chris would be damned if he was going to let that happen again. Gripping the shoulder of Fowler’s jacket, Chris struck him hard across the face again, then shook him, snarling inarticulate rage at the man who’d butchered the only two people in the world he cared about. The fury built up, spilled over, and Chris flung Fowler into the dirt and kicked him savagely, once, twice, then noticed that Fowler was gone and the man gasping in the street, covered with blood, was the Warden.

Chris felt light, unattached to his body as he hauled the Warden to his feet. The memories of his incarceration came back, the pain, the humiliation, and Chris screamed against those memories, yelled at the impotent anger and rage he’d been forced to keep locked inside, and suddenly it came pouring out, like water through a burst pipe. The warden fell out of Chris’ hands against the brick wall, but Chris lunged forward and grabbed him, slung him across the alley and watched him bounce off the opposite wall and land in the street. _Not so tough now, are you?_ Chris soared with his anger . It was odd, he felt so full and free that he didn’t think he could still be in his body. His rage and grief flooded over his whiskey-soaked mind until there was no longer cohesive thought left, only feelings - outrage, grief, guilt, soul-numbing loneliness all spiraled around him, shot out of him like lightning bolts. The warden groaned, tried to rise, but Chris kicked him again, then punched him, over and over, couldn’t believe how fantastic it felt to finally win, to finally beat the man - the men - who had held him down for so long. The warden made one last, staggering attempt to break free, but before he had taken two steps Chris grabbed him by the collar and one arm and threw him with all his frenzied strength into the brick wall. Finally, the warden crumpled in a heap against the wall, and lay still.

For a long, free-falling moment Chris stood there in the dark, his heart pounding in his ears, his head splitting from a sudden, violent headache. He felt spent, exhausted, but triumphant, and he grinned drunkenly at the battered form of one of his worst enemies as it lay bleeding against the rough brick. God, he was tired. Home. Bed. Panting with exhaustion, he turned and stumbled out of the alley toward his rented room, sparing only a few of his still-functioning brain cells to wonder why, in the black gloom of the alley, the Warden suddenly looked so much like JD Dunne. But that thought didn’t go much of anywhere, and Chris disregarded it, and concentrated on finding his way home.

  
  


Buck Wilmington sat bolt upright in his bed and gasped.

He didn’t know why he had done it. Blinking blearily, Buck wiped his eyes and looked around his room. It was dark, and quiet. He’d been in a dead sleep not two seconds before, so deep he hadn’t even been dreaming, and now he was wide awake. Why?

Then Buck looked toward his door and smiled a little. It was open a crack, and the sweet little Mexican girl he’d been romancing, Rita, was standing in the thin sliver of light, talking to somebody, it looked like. She was a beauty, and talented too, although she didn’t speak English all that well. But that was okay; they’d managed to have a fine old time without words.

Buck rolled over in the bed, checked his pocket watch that was on the nightstand, and cast a curious eye to the door. Who the hell was Rita talking to at three o’clock in the morning? It wasn’t a man, Buck realized when he heard the voice, and relaxed. Sometimes you couldn’t be too careful...

Rita looked back toward the bed, just a silhouette in the darkness, large brown eyes and tumbling black hair. She turned back to the door, said something very fast and low in Spanish, then leaving the door open she tiptoed to the bed and leaned on it.

“Hey there, darlin’,” Buck said conversationally, smiling even though he knew she couldn’t see it. “You got a friend out there? She want to come in?”

“Please, Buck,” Rita said, and when he caught her tone Buck could tell she wasn’t in the mood for play. “Maria says you should come...um, out. Go, to the alleyway.”

“Huh?” Buck asked in confusion as he leaned over and fumbled with the bedside lamp. After a moment, he had it lit, and saw as the flame slowly glowed brighter that Rita looked worried about something.

“Um...” Rita glanced toward the half-open door where Buck could see another Mexican girl, sixteen maybe, looking fearfully into the room. “Um, she says there is a man...how you say...” She struck her head lightly with her hand. “He’s bleeding, bleeding. Knocked out.”

“Oh.” Buck sat up, put on a reassuring smile. “Probably another bar brawl.” He looked at the girl in the doorway, waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, Maria. Happens here all the time.”

Maria gave Rita an urgent look, said something rapidly. Rita nodded, then looked at Buck. “She says you should come. Very bad.”

Buck sighed, scratched his head. “Rita, I’d love to, but what am I gonna do with an unconscious drunk at three o’clock in the morning? Go get JD Dunne, he’s the sheriff. Go pull his hide outa bed, you feel like rousting somebody.”

Rita translated this to Maria. Buck was settling himself back onto the bed, and saw Maria’s eyes widen and she said, “Esta Señor Dunne.”

Buck stopped; he couldn’t have heard that right. But Rita looked at him and said, “She says the bleeding man is Mr. Dunne.”

 _No, that can’t be._ Buck felt a sudden pang of fear, but fought it. “You sure?”

The girl started babbling then, pulling at her plain dress and her hair. Without being aware of it Buck got out of the bed and, without taking his eyes off Maria, began pulling on his pants, then his shirt, faster and faster as she spoke.

Rita nodded at the girl’s words and said, “She says she knows him, black hair, star on...on him, white shirt, but hurry, it’s bad, hurry.”

Rita sounded almost panicked, in fact they both did, and it didn’t help Buck in his rush to get dressed. _This girl has to be wrong, hell, what would JD be doin’ prowlin’ the streets at this hour?_ _She’s wrong._ Buck grabbed a lantern from his bureau. _She’s got to be wrong._ But, just in case, Buck sent Rita over to Nathan’s before lighting the lantern and heading out into the dark street.

  
  


Maria grabbed Buck’s hand from the moment they left his room, and she was tugging at him insistently, so Buck just let her lead him along. He was fighting a battle within himself, a war between the absurd notion that JD had gotten himself into a fight when usually he was snoozin’ in his room, and the unsettling knowledge that this girl seemed pretty sure it was him.

Buck had always been an optimist, and so by the time they reached the alleyway had pretty much convinced himself that Maria was wrong, and it was somebody else she was dragging him to. He was already picturing the laugh he and JD would share about this in the saloon the next day when Maria pulled him into the alley, and his lantern filled the narrow walkway with light.

What he saw shattered the reassuring illusion.

“Jesus Christ,” Buck said quickly, almost running forward and quickly putting the lantern on the ground, so he had both hands free. It was JD, huddled against the brick wall as if he’d been thrown there like an abandoned doll. His face was half-hidden in his arms, but what Buck could see looked beaten black and blue. The boy’s white shirt and brown vest were dirty and bloodstained, and near his collar the shirt was ripped. Most frightening of all, JD was not moving, not at all.

“JD?” Buck said, trying not to sound too terrified, but Christ, who would beat up on JD like this? Bending closer so he could see the tiniest movement of JD’s eyelashes, Buck tried again, “JD? Can you hear me, son?”

Nothing. Good God. Buck tried to brush some of that wayward black hair out of JD’s eyes. Wincing, he drew his hand back in shock; JD’s hair was slick with blood.

Nathan! Buck stood up very fast. As if his thoughts could be heard, Buck saw Nathan come tearing around the corner not half a moment later, half-dressed and carrying his medical kit. Seeing JD, the healer hurried to the boy’s side and knelt down, peering into that scratched, bruised face. Buck stepped aside, then got as close as he could to Nathan without interfering.

“JD?” Nathan said quietly, reaching up to gently pull JD’s arms away from his face.

Buck saw Nathan wince at how swollen and bloodied JD’s face was; Buck didn’t like the look Nathan was giving the small, drying rivers of blood that ran down the side of JD’s face. Buck felt a sudden chill. _This is a nightmare. It has to be._

Nathan had just begun to slowly unfold JD’s arms when the boy suddenly gasped, started and opened his eyes. Buck shuddered when he saw those eyes; they didn’t seem to be looking at anything.

JD gave a loud, hitching whimper, and Nathan stopped. “May be his collarbone’s broke, “ he said somberly. “Don’t know what else might be. We gotta get him somewhere where I can see what I’m doing.”

Buck was hardly listening. Leaning close to JD he said hopefully, “Hey, JD? You still with us, buddy?”

JD blinked, but didn’t look at Buck or Nathan, just stared straight ahead, the deep red cuts and blue bruises standing out in ghastly relief to his white-pale skin.

“Shock,” Nathan said confidently, worry in his deep tones as he placed an expert hand on JD’s forehead, touched the bleeding wound there. “He ain’t really awake, Buck. He can’t hear you.”

“Damn,” Buck swore, his frustration mounting as he watched a trickle of blood seep from underneath JD’s hair and snake down his face. Buck’s face clouded with anger as the blood flowed down JD’s cheek, then dripped onto his shirt, staining it deep red.

“Damn it, Nathan,” Buck growled. “We gotta find the bastard that did this. Now.”

JD let out another soft gasp and closed his eyes, and Nathan gently guided his head back so it wouldn’t strike the brick wall.

“First things first, Buck,” Nathan said, and Buck listened to the authority in his voice. “Go to the undertaker’s. He’s got a stretcher. Then we’ll get JD inside, and I can find out how bad he’s hurt.”

Buck nodded and jumped to his feet, fear and anxiety fighting with a fury he hadn’t thought he was capable of until he had looked into those glazed, unseeing eyes round with pain. Nathan gently, cautiously turned JD over so the youth was lying on his back, and Nathan could better assess his injuries. The unconscious youth let out a low moan, almost a sob, and in the lantern light the bruises and welts on his face and neck were turned black and a sickening green. Buck grit his teeth and said, “Nathan?”

“Hm?” Nathan didn’t look at Buck, moved the lantern closer.

“Just so you know, when we do find him? He’s mine.”

Nathan began to cut the blood-encrusted sleeve of JD’s shirt away from one limp arm. “Go get the stretcher, Buck.”

Buck stood there for one long moment, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes riveted on the quiet, still youth at his feet. His friend, who might die while he was gone.

“That son of a bitch is mine,” Buck hissed, and went to do as he was told.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn was just beginning to break over Four Corners when Josiah Sanchez walked through the doorway of the church, ready for another day of repairs.

He looked around the whitewashed walls and rough-hewn pews. _This place is really coming along._ When they had all arrived, the place was a wreck, a lot like the town. And now...well, it would never rival the Sistine Chapel, but perhaps someday he’d baptize a baby here, or unite a couple in marriage, or be witness to someone finding peace in a Lord he had all but given up on years ago. Perhaps...

It was still dim in the church, despite the tall windows that graced the walls, but still Josiah had no trouble finding the Bible he read, sometimes. He’d found it, while he was cleaning, shut away in a dusty, unused desk drawer. At first Josiah almost recoiled from it; that innocent-looking book had been the cause of an untold number of troubles in his life, a source of war, not peace, and he had thought about giving it away, or just putting it back in the drawer. But, once, he’d opened it after a weary day and found that the lyrical cadence of the old-language passages could be soothing in a way, and he’d found himself turning to it from time to time ever since. It wasn’t a habit, just something Josiah did whenever he felt a little spiritual tug to go give it a read.

Like this morning.

Leaning against the lectern with a steaming cup of coffee, Josiah followed his usual habit when reading the Bible: He ran his thumb along the edge of the pages and just opened it, randomly. He’d never been one to read the Book cover-to-cover, or to follow any set pattern; he just let it open wherever it happened to, and he read a few verses or chapters until something made sense.

 _Hm._ Josiah’s thumb found a page and pushed into it, opening the book. The Gospel - Mark, Chapter five. Taking a sip of his coffee, Josiah turned his blue eyes to the text and read:

“And they came to the other side of the sea, into the country of the Geraseries. And when Jesus came out of the boat, immediately a man from the tombs with an unclean spirit met Him. And he had his dwelling among the tombs. And no one was able to bind him any more, not even with a chain; because he had often been bound with chains, and the chains had been torn apart by him, and the shackles broken in pieces, and no one was strong enough to subdue him. And constantly night and day, among the tombs and in the mountains, he was crying out and gashing himself with stones.”

Josiah swallowed his coffee and frowned. _No uplifting psalms today, I guess._

“And seeing Jesus from a distance, he ran up and bowed down before Him and crying out with a loud voice, he said, ‘What do I have to do with You, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I implore you by God, do not torment me!”

For Jesus had been saying to him, ‘Come out of the man, you unclean spirit!”

And He was asking him, ‘What is your name?’ And he said to Him, ‘My name is Legion, for we are many.’”

Josiah took another drink of coffee, stopped reading, suddenly depressed. It always depressed him, the Bible stories about men being driven mad by spirits. It made him feel that somehow man was little more to God than an experiment, a tool used to prove a point. Let a man be possessed by demons, then send your Son to drive them out. Then everyone will know that He is God. Unless no one drives them out, in which case the man ultimately dies, tormented and insane, which Josiah had always felt had to have happened at least once. And it had always irritated him.

Well, it was time to get some breakfast. Josiah closed the Bible and started walking down the apse toward the door when his eye fell on one of the pews, near the back of the church, and he stopped.

There was a young girl asleep in the pew, and Josiah recognized her as one of the unfortunate orphans of the streets. He’d often tried to get the working girls of Four Corners to come into his church, not necessarily for spiritual guidance, but because it was safer than being on a wooden boardwalk amongst prowling wolves. They were babies, some of them, and Josiah hated to see innocence taken so young.

And this girl really was young, younger than JD, by a good three years. She was curled tightly up against the back of the pew, and Josiah decided not to disturb her, but as he moved past her, the girl gasped and opened her eyes.

“Easy, Maria,” Josiah soothed in Spanish, coming closer and leaning over to look at her. “It’ s okay. You decide to pay me a visit?”

“Oh, Father!” The girl cried out, gripping the back of the pew with both young hands. “I’m sorry! I had to get off the street.”

“Good,” Josiah said with a smile, coming around the pew to sit next to her. “It’s much safer in here.”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” the girl said, confused. “I mean last night. I was scared, so I came in here. I’m sorry.” She hung her head, her long black hair streaming over her face.

“Hush, Maria.” Josiah put out one big hand and brought her chin up so he could meet her eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for. The streets at night are very scary. Did something happen?”

Maria nodded. “I saw a demon in the alleyway!”

Josiah brought his head back in surprise. “A demon? Are you sure?”

The girl gulped and nodded. “It was in the shape of a man, dressed all in black. He looked terrible!”

Josiah tried not to grin when the girl mentioned the ‘dressed in black’ part; he had to admit that in certain kinds of light, Chris did look demonic.

Maria had started crying, so Josiah laid a comforting hand on her shoulder and said, “Did you see something else?”

The girl nodded, trying to control her tears. “The demon was trying to take a soul!” She sobbed and crossed herself repeatedly, “I thought we were not to see such things!”

 _Hm._ Josiah did not not like the turn this was taking. “What do you mean, trying to take a soul?”

“He was - “ Her voice hitched, and she looked at Josiah with huge, terrified eyes, “He was throwing him around, hitting him and kicking, and he hit his head against the wall and just laid there, and that was when the demon left and I went and found Rita.”

 _Uh-oh._ Chris got in a fight. But was it a fight? “Then what happened?”

“Her lover went to the alleyway, and then a black man came and they took him away.” Maria started crying again and she said, “Does the devil want young souls now? Will they be coming for me next? He was almost as young as me, Father! ”

Black man. Lover. Nathan - and Buck? “Who, Maria?”

“The man the demon was trying to take away! Senor Dunne!”

Josiah’s mind froze for a moment, then regained itself. He licked his lips and said slowly, “Maria, are you telling me the demon you saw last night was attacking JD Dunne?”

Maria nodded wildly. “I think he killed him, Father! Please protect me!”

 _Good God! Chris attacked..._ Looking at Maria intently, Josiah said, “I’ll protect you, Maria, just stay here. There’s some rolls and coffee in the back room if you’re hungry. I’ll be back when I can.”

The girl gulped back her tears, wiped her face. “Yes, Father. Thank you.”

Josiah tried to give her a reassuring smile, but what he was feeling was far beyond reassurance. Patting her on the head, he rose and left the church for Nathan’s, the same words echoing in his head over and over:

I implore you by God, do not torment me...Come out of the man, you unclean spirit!...What is your name?...My name is Legion, for we are many...

Mary Travis finished pinning her hair into its neat blond bun and walked tiredly from her room to the front door of the printing office. She hadn’t slept well the night before and somewhat resented the morning light that she could see peeking around the edges of the window shades that shielded the large front windows. Why did the sun have to rise so early?

Yawning and stretching, Mary raised the window shade that blocked the window in the front door, then looked out onto the street, puzzled. Usually the grey predawn light showed her an empty street, occupied only by stray wisps of early-morning fog. But today, there was a small knot of people, farmers mostly by the looks of them, milling around the alleyway a short distance down the street. Her newspaperwoman’s instincts now fully awake, Mary hastily opened the door and stepped into the chilly morning air.

As she neared the alley, one of the men, a grizzled old man she only knew as Pete, turned toward her and said, “Miz Travis, did you hear? Sheriff’s been murdered!”

Mary’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

Another man turned to look at her, one of the local farmers. “Pete here was comin’ up the alley ‘bout half an hour go, and found that.”

Mary looked to where the man was pointing. Just inside the alley was the signs of a recent struggle; the dirt in the alleyway was churned up and scattered, and against one wall Mary could see a few dark brown smears she could only guess was blood.

Mary gulped, her mouth dry. “But what makes you think Mr. Dunne was the victim?”

“Found this too.” Pete said in an oddly triumphant way, holding up a dusty, bloodstained bowler hat. “Sheriff’s the only feller I know wears one of these things.”

“I’ll take that,” Mary said suddenly, and took the hat. She didn’t know why she should mind that Pete was holding it. She only knew that for some reason she felt better having possession of it herself. “Does anyone know where Mr. Dunne is now?”

The men mostly shook their heads, but Pete said, “Prob’ly he’s at that doctor fella’s. Only game in town, ya might say.”

Mary nodded and, hurriedly turning on her heel, walked swiftly away from the little group, her skirts raising small clouds of swirling dust in the morning light.

“Huh,” Pete said as he and his friends went back to gawking at the bloody alley. “What’s she in sich a hurry to see a dead body fer?”

  
  


Nathan wrung the cloth out, knew from the pink tint of the water that he’d have to change it soon. Again.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Morning. Must be about five, five-thirty. People will be up soon, asking questions. And he didn’t have any answers.

Who did this? Nathan asked himself for the thousandth time as he turned his attention to his bed where JD was lying, naked except for his cotton underdrawers and half-covered with bandages. Nathan gently dabbed at the youth’s beaten face, pursing his lips as he willed as hard as he could for JD to wake up. It wasn’t good - well, hell, none of it was good, JD’s collarbone was broken, along with two or three ribs, and there were some bruises on his arms and legs Nathan wasn’t sure about yet, maybe one of those limbs was fractured. JD’s stomach and back were a mass of cuts and welts where someone had hit him hard, repeatedly. Whether they might have hurt him inside, Nathan had no way of telling yet. And some scared, horrified part of him really didn’t want to know.

But what really concerned Nathan was that JD hadn’t opened his eyes. Not in the two hours since he and Buck had brought him in here. It hadn’t been easy, getting JD up the stairs in a stretcher, but they’d done it, and once there Buck had alternately paced the floor, sat in stony, glaring silence, and ranted at the top of his lungs about the kind of low-down scum that would jump a man in an alley and beat him senseless. Buck’s restless concern had finally been too much for Nathan’s concentration, and he ordered the gunslinger to go get some rest or some food - either one could keep Buck occupied for a while, and Nathan really needed to focus. For that he needed silence.

Nathan had been sure that sometime while he was binding JD’s wounds, the boy would wake up. At some point when he was securing JD’s right arm against his side so the collarbone could heal, Nathan knew he’d hear a young voice yelling in his ear that it hurt, and to stop it. But he didn’t hear a thing, except for an occasional, unconscious moan.

Well, certainly then, Nathan had thought that JD would be alert enough to put up a fuss while he was binding his ribs. Busted ribs hurt like hell, and JD would have to be pretty out of it not to become alert enough to give Nathan hell for tying him up like that. But, nothing. Only the labored breathing of the profoundly asleep. And silence.

And now...Nathan bit his lip, stroked JD’s forehead with the cloth, careful not to disturb the new rows of stitches in the youth’s scalp. Someone - or maybe more than one someone - had slammed JD pretty hard in the head, more than once. A dark, angry bruise blotched the left side of JD’s face, where Nathan guessed he’d been thrown into the wall. From the looks of it, by the time that had happened JD hadn’t been able to stop himself from hitting the wall full force. Nathan thought of the War, of men he’d seen with injuries like that, from shells and shrapnel and exploding buildings. Some woke up, and were never quite the same after. Some went blind, a few couldn’t hear anymore. And there were some that he knew would have been better off dying.

The morning sun leaked around the edges of his window shade, as if asking to come in. It was pretty gloomy in the little room, but Nathan was in no mood to be cheered up. He stood, picked up the coverlet which had been hastily stripped off the bed and covered JD with it, tucking the top of the sheet under the boy’s chin. Nathan had done all he could, and he didn’t want to look at those bruises anymore.

Nathan had just picked up the washbasin to dump the water out when the door opened and Mary Travis came in. She started when she saw the pale form on the bed, and Nathan was secretly glad he’d spared her the sight of the rest of his shattered body.

“Is he dead?” Mary blurted in frightened tones.

Nathan shook his head, his eyes casting down to the basin of bloodied water in his hand. “But he’s beat up awful bad.”

“By who?” Mary asked in anxious frustration as her round blue eyes scanned JD’s silent form. “Nathan, who would do such a thing?”

Nathan bit his lip, and when he looked up at Mary his kind eyes were hard with resolve. “Don’t know, ma’am, but I intend to find out. Cause any man does this to the law in a town, he ain’t scared of much. Best we find him before he finds somebody else to beat on.”

Mary’s face changed, and Nathan realized she was thinking the same thing he was - a madman might be on the loose, a powerful, dangerous one at that, with no respect for authority and no fear of reprisal. And he had to be found. Quick.

Nathan began to move toward the door, the washbasin heavy in his hand. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Miz Travis - “

“Oh - “ Mary reached out and took the bowl from Nathan’s hands. “I’ll take care of that, Nathan, you must be exhausted. Can I get anything for you? Would you like some breakfast?”

Nathan relinquished the bowl, thought suddenly that he was very hungry. “Some coffee and eggs would be good, thank you, ma’am. You seen Buck?”

Mary backed toward the door. “He’s over at the saloon with Vin, questioning the bartender. The saloon is usually open pretty late, they think maybe he saw something.”

Nathan nodded, and as Mary silently left the room he went back to JD’s bedside, sat in the hard wooden chair, and waited.

  
  


The shards of broken glass crunched in protest as the bartender, Billy, swept them across the saloon floor into the dustpan he was holding.

“Last night?” he said as he straightened up with the loaded dustpan and faced Vin and Buck, who were standing close by. “Yeah, I was open late last night. What do you want to know?”

“Who was in here?” Vin asked in his usual drawl, his languid tones not betraying the concern Buck knew he felt.

Billy shrugged as he carried the dustpan to the back of the bar. “Lots of people, until about one or so.”

“Anybody after that?” Vin asked in an unhurried tone, thumbs looped through his belt.

“Just one.” Billy said with a slight tone of disgust, as he returned to the table where another pile of glass shards was waiting. “That hired gun, Chris Larabee.”

Buck’s head cocked over. “Chris was here last night?”

“Yes,” Billy replied tiredly, then stood up. “Look, I know he’s a friend of yours, but that man is dangerous. He was drinkin’ more last night than I ever seen one man drink, and I’ve been doin’ this for - “

“How long did he stay?” Vin said, his blue eyes narrowing.

Billy stopped his prattle, thought a moment. “About two-thirty. He must have had ten bottles in him when he left. Dumped half the empties on the floor. I was so beat I just said screw it till this morning.”

Buck looked at the bartender, then at Vin. “Was anybody with him when he left?”

“Are you kidding?” Billy said sarcastically as he bent to sweep the glass. “Who wants to be around that man when he’s drunk?”

Vin and Buck traded glances of agreement as Billy shook his head and said, “You couldn’t pay me to get near Larabee, especially last night. When he left here he looked like he wanted to kill somebody.”

“Is that a fact.” Buck said conversationally, remembering how moody Chris got when he drank.

“That’s a fact,” Billy replied, straightening up with a dustpan full of broken glass. “That’s why I called the sheriff.”

Vin and Buck both tilted their heads, and Buck said, “You called the sheriff?”

“Hell, yes.” Billy frowned as he walked the dustpan behind the bar. “You think I wanted to run into Larabee in a dark alley when he’s so drunk he don’t know himself? After he left I went and knocked on the sheriff’s door and told him Larabee was prowling the streets drunk.” Billy dumped the glass into a trash can with a hugely noisy crash, then paused. “You know, one of these days we gotta get a real sheriff.”

Vin shifted his weight and asked, “What happened then?”

Billy thought. “Well, the kid said he’d go make sure Larabee got home all right, and I guess he went and did it.” A pause, and Billy’s eyebrows came together in confusion. “Or did he? Why are you two asking me about last night, anyway?”

Buck scratched his neck nervously, and looked at Vin, who said quietly, “Somebody jumped JD last night, beat him up pretty bad.”

“Yeah, we were hoping,” Buck added quickly, wincing at the memory of what he’d seen in the alley, “That maybe you’d seen somebody who looked like the sorta varmint that mighta done it.”

Billy laughed, a short bark, and his face grew hard. “I sure did. Larabee! That man was so drunk he’d have beaten his own mother to death and not known it.”

Buck laughed at the notion of Chris attacking one of his own men, and was about to say something when he realized something that made him unreasonably angry.

Vin wasn’t laughing. In fact, he was regarding Billy with an expression of deep thought on his face, and before Buck could say a word, Vin touched his hat to the bartender, said, “Well, thanks Billy.” and turning, walked out of the bar.

Buck blinked in surprise, and looked first at Vin, then at Billy, but the bartender was busy scraping up the last of the previous evening and didn’t acknowledge Vin’s words. Frowning, Buck hurriedly followed Vin out the door.

Vin paused on the sidewalk, pursing his lips at the crowd that was gathering outside the jail across the street.

“This could get bad,” he said to Buck as the other man caught up with him.

“It’s already as bad as I want it to get,” Buck replied. “You think we should go wake Chris up?”

Vin’s eyes turned unaccountably sad. “I think we have to.”

“Good idea’” Buck said under his breath as he followed Vin down the wooden boardwalk. “Even drunk, he mighta seen somethin’.”

“Maybe.” Vin said

It was the same laconic tone Vin always used, but there was something else in that voice, an undertone to it that made Buck nervous. Clearing his throat he asked, “You gettin’ any ideas, Vin?”

The former bounty hunter shook his head as he walked. “Nothin’ I want to discuss just yet.”

A strange, painful knot was building in Buck’s stomach, one that hadn’t been there until Billy had mentioned that Chris had been drunk enough last night to kill his own mother. It wasn’t possible, not Chris. But Buck noticed Vin’s attitude had changed since being in the bar - his walk had a tension to it Buck hadn’t seen since they met, and he was walking fast, something else Vin didn’t do. Something was going on here Buck didn’t like, and he was determined to make it go away as quick as possible, so he laughed and said, “Well, you know, Chris ain’t gonna remember much if he was as drunk as Billy said.”

Vin kept walking, didn’t say anything.

Buck tried again. “Maybe there’s some tracks in the alley we can follow, and we can talk to Chris later. He ain’t gonna be much help till he sobers up anyhow.”

Nothing. Vin’s stride got a little wider.

“Vin? You hear me? We better leave Chris alone, he ain’t gonna like bein’ rolled outa bed so early.”

A clipped response, short and tense. “No help for it. We gotta know.”

“Know what?” Buck ran to keep up with Vin now, anxiety giving him the energy to keep up. “Jesus, Vin, what are you runnin’ for? You think Chris knows who beat up on JD last night?”

Vin slowed, turned to look at Buck with eyes so full of distress and fear that Buck thought for one crazy moment that Vin was going to confess some horrible crime. Instead, the former bounty hunter paused, then turned to continue up the boardwalk.

Unsettled, but unwilling to leave the gnawing feeling in his gut alone, Buck hurried after Vin and commented, “Good thing Chris didn’t hear that bartender. He’d turn him inside out, some of the things that man said.”

Vin just kept walking, didn’t even look back.

Buck chuckled, a forced bit of merriment to allay his wavering mood. “I bet if Chris heard someone say he’d gotten drunk and beat up on JD, he’d knock ‘em into next week.”

The sound of boots on weathered pine boards, nothing else.

“Vin?” Buck said uncertainly, “I mean, you ever hear such a dang fool thing in your life? Chris got himself a temper, I ain’t sayin’...but beatin’ on JD, that’s just...Vin?”

Nothing. No reply. In a sudden fit of panic Buck reached out and grabbed Vin’s sleeve, forcing the other man to stop. When Vin turned to face him, Buck saw a pained look in his eyes.

Buck’s expression changed to one of amazement. “Oh, come on, Vin! You don’t think Chris would - “

Vin’s eyes darted to the sidewalk, and Buck saw his jaw tense. “I won’t know what to think till we get some answers. Till then...” He shrugged, turned to go.

Buck pulled him back. “But you ain’t sayin’ it’s possible?”

Vin pursed his lips, said nothing.

Buck laughed then, laughed at the absurdity of the thought that was coursing through both their minds. “Dang, Vin, you hear what you’re sayin’? Chris wouldn’t pound on JD! I mean, sure, Chris gets drunk sometimes - hell, after... after the fire he’d get so drunk he even took a few swings at me, but that was three years ago. He ain’t been like that since, and he’s comin’ out of it. Oh, don’t let all that moodiness and sour looks fool you, deep down inside he’s still Chris, and Chris wouldn’t do a thing like that. He just ain’t capable.” Buck finished firmly, almost convincing himself. Yet the knot was still there...

“Whatever you say, Buck,” Vin answered back over his shoulder.

Buck didn’t like the sound of Vin’s voice, didn’t like the slightly accusatory tone against Chris. Feeling the uneasiness in his belly grow to outright fear, Buck once again pulled on Vin’s jacket, and as the other man turned around he met Buck’s burning eyes. “Now, now hold on there, Vin,” Buck said somewhat plaintively. “You ain’t sayin’ you seriously think Chris is responsible for all this?”

Vin paused, once again looked down thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Buck. I don’t want to think so.”

“Well, then don’t!” Buck was growing aghast at Vin’s thinking. “Cause I can tell you right now Chris just wouldn’t do it. Even dead drunk he - “

“He took a swing at you once,” Vin pointed out, his blue eyes steady. “And we’ve all seen how riled he can get. Bartender said he was pretty drunk.”

“Well, sure, but - “ Buck cast around in his mind, tried to think of some reason why Vin’s argument wouldn’t make sense. “But - “

Vin had turned away, but Buck tightened his hold on Vin’s jacket, infuriated at the man’s reticence, because it added to the knot in his stomach, and made the knot wrap around his spine and threaten to strangle him with a thought that was too horrible for him to contemplate. He had to ask, had to hear a negative answer or the possibility of it would drive him mad, right there on the street. Glaring at Vin accusingly, Buck said, “Dammit, Vin, are you thinkin’ that Chris did this?”

Vin’s eyes were hooded, but his face was set with a reluctant anger. “I don’t want to say yet, Buck. We gotta - “

“God dammit!” Buck yelled, all of the pain and anger and fear he’d been feeling since three o’clock that morning roaring out of him as he pulled Vin into an alleyway and stared him down. “God dammit, you give me a straight answer for once! Do you think Chris - “ Buck had to pause and take a deep, unsteady breath, “Do you think that Chris beat up on JD?”

Vin shook Buck’s hand off, hot anger glowing in his normally placid eyes. His cheeks were flushed red, but still in that calm, steady voice he said, “I ain’t gonna say - “

“Oh, yes you are,” Buck growled, astonished himself at how furious he was getting, but damn! Damn, here was this man who didn’t know Chris half as well as Buck did, standing there and practically accusing him of things Buck knew for a fact Chris was totally incapable of. Sure, he’d been known to kick back a few, and yes, it was best to avoid him when he’d been on a bender but - but - damn! Beat up on JD? Yes, Chris had beaten up on Buck, once, worse than Buck had let on to Vin, but that had been all right, Buck had forgiven Chris because, well, Buck knew Chris was all torn up over Sarah and Adam, and besides, Buck knew he could take a little roughing up. But JD was half Chris’ size, inexperienced at street fighting, and nowhere near a match for him physically. For an instant the image flashed through Buck’s mind of Chris Larabee - the man he’d always been proud to call partner and friend, Sarah’s husband and Adam’s father, one of the most sensitive souls he’d ever known - Chris, standing in that alley looming over the small form crumpled at his feet, with JD’s blood on his hands. Chris, Buck’s onetime second self, kicking and punching the youth who, next to Chris, Buck had found himself feeling the closest kinship to. Chris, Buck’s best friend, killing JD, Buck’s surrogate little brother and protected charge.

_No._

With a small growl of rage, Buck grabbed Vin’s collar and backed him up against the alley wall, not violently but slowly, as if he was having trouble thinking and moving at the same time.

“Now you tell me,” Buck said in a low voice. “Tell me what you’re thinkin’. You don’t think Chris would hurt that boy.”

Again Vin’s jaw tensed, and he looked at Buck with pity in his blue eyes. “Buck, I know you don’t want to think it might be so - ”

Buck let go of Vin’s collar, backed away a step. “How dare you,” he rumbled, “even think that that man could do somethin’ like this.”

Vin straightened his jacket, shook his head. “He ain’t the man you knew, Buck. Before. You know it’s so.”

Buck began violently shaking his head. “And he thinks you’re on his side.”

Vin squared his shoulders, gazed at Buck steadily. “We all are, Buck. But I ain’t blind. Chris has got himself some demons, and when he drinks they come on out.”

Buck looked away, unable to believe Vin’s treachery. “And you think they’d ‘come out’ so bad that he’d beat someone into a pulp and not even care who it was? Is that the kind of man you think Chris really is?”

“When he drinks he is,” Vin said. “He drinks deep, so’s he don’t have to think on things. He drinks till he can’t feel no more, and when a man gets to that place he’s capable of just about anything. Including murder.”

Buck’s mouth hung open. “I never would have figured you for a turncoat, Vin. Talkin’ about Chris like he was some no-account drifter. I oughta take you apart right now.”

“And I reckon you could do it,” Vin said evenly. “But it won’t change what Chris has to go through. His demons been ridin’ him pretty rough, and he’s gotta buck ‘em or JD won’t be the last - ”

“Now you hold it right there,” Buck said angrily, getting close to Vin and pointing a finger in his face. “Chris may have had his share of bad nights, but he did not hurt that boy! Do you hear me?”

There was the pity again, so vibrant in Vin’s eyes that Buck had to fight the urge to slug Vin across the face. Buck didn’t know why he wanted to slug Vin, except that Vin was giving voice to the silent terrors that were slowly strangling Buck, and he hated it. There was a long, heavy pause, broken only by Buck’s rough breathing; then Vin blinked slowly and said quietly, resignedly, “He ain’t the man he was, Buck. He ain’t, and you know it.”

Then Vin adjusted his jacket again, and walked with determination out of the narrow alley. After a moment, Buck let out a huge, exhausted sigh, wiped his face with his bandanna, and followed the bounty hunter down the boardwalk that led to Chris’ room, and answers.

It was a long time before the air in the little alleyway stirred again, and Mary Travis emerged from the shadows by the rain barrel, the washbasin full of bloody water still in her hands, and her face as white as new-milled paper.

  
  


The air in Chris’ room was fetid, and reeked of alcohol. It hung in the air, clung to the thin drapes, and assailed Vin and Buck like a physical force as they slowly opened the door to Chris’ rented room. Vin went in first, looked around. The room was dark in the morning sunshine, the only light coming in thin streaks around the pulled-down shades. The room looked tidy, almost empty of personal effects, and as Buck entered that close, dim room they saw the sprawled-out form of Chris Larabee, draped over his small bed fully dressed and sound asleep.

As they approached, Buck could heard Chris’ ragged snoring. They drew closer, and Vin moaned. It really was a moan, and in the next heartbeat Vin said in the saddest voice Buck had ever heard, “Buck, look at his hands.”

Buck looked. It was hard to see in the low light, but Chris was lying on his stomach, and both hands were flung above his head and clearly visible. The pale skin on them was torn, bloodied, and skinned. As if he’d been fighting.

Buck felt like he was going to throw up. No, he thought wildly in one final attempt to shove the truth away, but it came back and said sorry, I’m gonna hang around awhile. It was impossible, but Buck couldn’t turn it away.

“Let me handle this,” Buck said in a husky voice as he looked at Vin in the liquid darkness.

Vin hesitated. “Buck - “

“Just - let me talk to him.” Buck’s eyes went back to the unconscious man sleeping off three years of painful memories on his narrow bed. “Alone.”

Vin rubbed his chin, tilted his head uncertainly. “I ain’t so sure - “

“Vin,” Buck said tightly, as if in danger of flying apart at any moment. “You and me ain’t never had words, but if you don’t go right now I’m gonna have to take your head off.”

Vin paused again, looked at Chris, finally nodded and wordlessly left the room.

As Buck heard the low click of the door closing behind Vin, he sat down heavily on the windowsill by Chris’ bed and let his shoulders sag in despair. He stared at Chris for a long time, thought of when they’d met, of Sarah and Adam, how Chris disappeared one day and Buck thought he’d never see his friend again. Then one day Chris had come back -

No, not quite. Buck looked sorrowfully at that wracked face pressed into the pillow. Chris’ shell had come back. Chris was long gone.

But that can’t be, Buck thought as his spirits rallied a little. Chris is still in there, someplace, he has to be. Maybe not the whorin’, fun-lovin’, good-times-till-dawn Chris, but the solid, dependable, good-friend Chris, the one who smiled and joked, the one who enjoyed life, the one who didn’t see anything wrong with being friends with the bastard son of a working girl... he was still in there under those dark clothes and behind those haunted eyes. He had to be.

 _If only you’d come out of there sometime._ Buck felt a sudden pang of loneliness as he cleared his throat to call Chris’ name and wake him up. _Sure do miss you, buddy._

  
  


Chris was mired in that brick-heavy sleep particular to the drunken binge when somewhere in the murky blackness he heard somebody calling his name. Irritated, in his sleep he tried to ignore it, but the voice came again, a little louder. _God damn it._ Chris struggled through the tangled, bloated spider web of unconsciousness, trying to work his way to the surface. But he was in no hurry.

“Chris?” The voice again. Buck. Damn him.

Chris pulled himself a little closer to the world, very reluctantly, and moved a bit. His cramped muscles protested, and he briefly thought about attempting to go back to sleep again, but Buck’s voice came again, and the tone in it told Chris that his friend wasn’t going to go away.

Crap. Chris painfully pulled his eyelids open.

The room was dark, but it might as well have housed the sun, the way Chris was forced to squint against the meager light. His head throbbed, his mouth tasted thick and strange, and the only thing going through his mind was that as soon as he found out why Buck had gotten him up, Chris was going to kill him.

“Chris?” Once more, the gentle, worried voice. “You awake?”

Chris grunted, scowled as he rolled over very, very slowly. He tried to focus on the blurry form sitting on his windowsill, but there were two of them, and he really didn’t want to try all that hard to figure out which one to look at. So he just lay there, and moved as little as possible. Even his eyelashes hurt.

“What do you want, Buck?” Chris growled, amazed in his foggy brain that Buck would even think to disturb him. This had better be damn important.

Buck didn’t answer right away, and Chris felt himself being pulled back into sleep. What the hell? He was almost out when Buck said, “We got a problem, Chris.”

It was the sad, hopeless tone in Buck’s voice that pulled Chris back. His friend rarely ever talked in that voice. Only one other time...Sarah and Adam...the thought didn’t form beyond those words, so Chris let it go and gingerly opened his eyes again, tried mightily to look at Buck.

“What is it?” he slurred, hoping it was something Buck just wanted to let him know about. That way he’d leave quicker.

But two things happened instantaneously that proved to Chris that whatever Buck had to tell him was no light matter. One, Chris’ vision was improving and he could see that Buck’s face was flushed with some intense emotion; and two, as he was talking to Buck Chris had reached up to rub his eyes with the back of one hand.

Instant, stabbing pain in his knuckles made Chris jerk his hand away and look at it. In the soft morning light he could see that his hand was bruised and scraped; pale brown scabs dotted his knuckles, ringed with dried blood. And his hands hurt, really hurt, like he’d been punching rocks.

Now, what the hell? Chris momentarily forgot Buck was there. When did his hands get all torn up? Last night? No...he’d had a dream about getting into a fight, but...

“Chris?” Buck said uncertainly, and it seemed to Chris he was trying to corral his wandering attention. Squinting, Chris took his eyes from his injured hand and wobbled his head in Buck’s direction.

Buck took a deep breath. “Chris, you remember last night?”

Chris got a bad feeling this had something to do with the current state of his hands, but chose to overlook it. Thinking as hard as his pounding head would allow, Chris coughed and shrugged. “Went drinkin’. Came home. Went to bed.”

Buck’s head came back, silhouetted like the rest of him against the windowsill. “Nothin’ else?”

Why did Buck’s voice have that scared kind of ring to it? Chris suddenly wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, so he gave Buck a glare and said, “Buck, you got something to tell me?”

Buck took off his hat, ran one hand through his hair.

“Buck,” Chris repeated, getting really pissed now because this conversation was starting to frighten him. He remembered nothing about last night after he went into the saloon, nothing. There was a gray curtain in his mind across those hours, and then sleep and vivid dreams about him beating up on the Warden, and Cletus Fowler, and for some reason JD Dunne.

Chris’ eyes shot to his hands. Very vivid dreams...

“Oh, shit.” Chris moaned, wiping his bloodshot eyes with the palm of one hand. “Oh, shit, Buck, tell me I didn’t beat somebody up last night.”

Buck’s face grew redder, but he didn’t answer.

“Oh, shit.” Chris rolled over on his back, dragged his hands through his blond hair, and his headache got worse.

“You don’t remember?” Buck’s voice was shaky in the shadows.

Chris shook his head as he stared at the ceiling, nauseated. “No, not after we came back and I went to the saloon. Aw, damn.” He groaned again, and shut his eyes. “Is that what you came to tell me? Did somebody get hurt last night?”

Buck didn’t meet his gaze, looked at the floor and nodded.

“When?”

“’Bout two-thirty. We asked the barkeep, he said you’d left the place by then.”

“Oh, no.” Chris sighed, a deep remorseful sigh. “Why the hell couldn’t they just leave me alone?”

Buck’s voice invaded his throbbing brain. “Who?”

“Whoever I took a swing at!” Chris snapped as he gave Buck another glare. He felt chagrined and angry and terribly hung over, and just wanted to go back to sleep. “You’d think people would know when to leave a man alone.”

Was Buck’s mouth hanging open? “Chris, you - “

Chris tried sitting up, and thought that the effort could take most of the morning. “God dammit, you don’t bother a man when he’s drinkin’. “ Chris paused, turned his left hand over. “Was it bad?”

Buck nodded again, swallowing loud enough for Chris to hear it. “Real bad.”

“Oooh, shit.” Chris sat up further, raked a hand through his hair. “Damn idiot.”

Buck was standing up. “Chris, you ain’t blamin’ the man you hit - “

“Well, who else, Buck!” Chris was getting furious now, furious and embarrassed - some local yokel gets in his way, and now Mary would have a ton of questions, the townspeople would be giving him dirty looks for six months...

Screw it. He was leaving this afternoon.

Buck’s hands were on his hips. “You ain’t meanin’ that!”

Chris sighed in exasperation. “Get off your high horse, Buck. Anybody gets near a man when he’s tryin’ to find a little peace wherever he can get it, they gotta know they’re gonna get hurt.”

“Bartender said you looked like you wanted to commit murder last night.” Buck’s voice was tight and thin,

“I did, Buck,” Chris growled, stepping very close to Buck and glaring at him. “I been wantin’ to commit murder since the moment I held Sarah’s dead body in my arms. Since I put that dirt on top of my little boy’s grave. Since everything that mattered to me was ripped out, I been lookin’ real hard for a reason not to wipe out every living thing I’m forced to look at. Including my own worthless life.”

Buck’s breath came out, scared and slow. “Can’t believe you’d beat a man senseless and then say it’s his doin’. That ain’t the Chris I know.”

“The Chris you know don’t live here no more,” Chris said wearily, picking up his boots. “Thought you knew that.”

“Reckon I did,” Buck said in even sadder tones, slumping against the windowsill. “Just didn’t want to think on it.”

“Oh, cut the melodrama, Buck,” Chris said in irritation as he sat down on the bed to pull on his boots. “My drinkin’s no secret in this town, nor the reason for it. I got a right to do whatever I want when we’re not out saving the stinking world.”

“Does that include beatin’ a man half to death?” Buck asked in a husky whisper.

Chris stood up, shook his pants out. “He should have stayed away from me, he had to know I was drunk. Well,” Chris looked around, spoke casually as he hunted for his hat. “ It ain’t on my head...”

Buck’s head snapped up, a spark of something awful in those blue eyes. What the hell. Chris thought his argument made perfect sense, after all, why would anyone want to get close to him if they didn’t want to get hurt?

“The hell it ain’t,” Buck said in a dangerously passionate voice, and in two steps he was standing close to Chris, and repeated, “The _hell_ it ain’t.”

Chris’ eyes glittered. Was Buck challenging him? “What are you saying?”

“What I’m sayin’,” Buck squared his shoulders, looked Chris straight in the eye, “Is that the man standin’ before me is no friend of mine. Chris Larabee - ” Buck had to pause, compose himself, then he continued, “Chris Larabee was the most upright man I ever knew. He’d own up to whatever wrong he done, and he’d never run. But you ain’t him.”

Chris felt an odd knot in his stomach as Buck stepped back from him, disgust on his face. Buck was saying these things? Impossible - Buck was the most loyal friend he -

“Chris Larabee would feel sorry for what he done.” Buck continued, acid hatred welling up in his eyes. “First words out of his mouth would be to say he was sorry. Second words would be how can I help. Not ‘he was askin’ for it’. Not ‘it ain’t my fault if he dies’.”

“Well, it ain’t!” Chris exploded, hating the raw stab of guilt in his gut and flinging it away as hard as he could. “What kind of idiot is stupid enough to mess with a man when he knows he’s drunk?”

Buck’s head was down, his voice savagely low. “A friend. One who was only tryin’ to help you, ‘cause Billy asked him to and he was the sheriff, and ‘cause he looked up to you.”

“A fr-” Chris blinked, his foggy mind not understanding. Not wanting to. Dear God...

“And if he dies...” Buck took another breath, deep and hitching, and gave Chris the most hateful, accusing glare Chris had ever seen. “If that boy dies, Chris, and you run, I’ll hunt you down. It won’t matter where you run, cause you know I’ll find you. And I’ll kill you.”

Chris suddenly felt numb. Something was trying to break into his mind, but he couldn’t -

Images -

Fowler’s man -

Fowler -

The warden -

And...

Chris’ legs wouldn’t let him stand anymore, and he sat down on the bed. He looked at his knuckles, dazed, and suddenly details flashed through his mind. It wasn’t a dream? Punching, kicking, again and again, ferocious anger and tremendous release, harder and harder, balled fists slamming into soft flesh over and over, with all his strength, feeling warm blood ooze over his fingers, exulting over his enemies’ defeat and it wasn’t his enemies at all...

 _No! I’m still dreaming and drunk, this can’t be real_. When he looked up Buck was gone, and for a still, hanging moment he felt as if he was still asleep, and he couldn’t feel anything.

A battered body, lying in the alley, blood on the bricks, on his shirt, on his dark brown vest and in his black hair, blood all over, and it would never come clean.

If you run I’ll hunt you down.

Not his enemies at all, but JD.

JD.

 _Shit._ Chris’ mind stuck on that word as if it could save him somehow, but he didn’t want to let go of it because he didn’t want to think what he knew was true, so he just kept thinking shit, shit, shit -

And realized suddenly with a surge of shame that what he wanted at that moment, the only thing he wanted in the whole wide world, was to get blinding, stinking, falling-down drunk.


	3. Chapter 3

Mary walked down the sunny streets in a daze, her eyes barely focusing on the tense little knots of people she could see milling around the alley, the jail, and huddling in tight groups elsewhere on the street. None of them seemed to see her, thank God. She didn’t really want to talk to anybody, not until she’d had a chance to think...

She’d gotten Nathan’s water, brought him a cup of coffee and some eggs, but then she just couldn’t stay. She had thought maybe she might, before she got back to Nathan’s room, but when she opened the door and saw once again JD lying on the bed, still, pale, his young face swollen and dark with bruises, she had thought of Vin and Buck’s conversation, and she just couldn’t stay. So she had made some excuse to Nathan, and Josiah who was there also, and left.

Finally Mary made it to her office, and slipped inside and closed the door. She made her way to her desk and sat down - she always thought better at her desk, it made her feel in control, intelligent, as if she could do things that mattered. Like the captain of a ship, Stephen had always said, and he was right. When she was at that desk, Mary had control of her world. Even now.

What should I do? She bit a fingernail and swept her eyes over the neatly organized desk. Facts, get facts, don’t let your emotions run away with you. You don’t know that Chris was responsible for what happened to JD, that was just Vin and Buck talking. Yes, Vin seemed sure, and yes, everyone knows Chris’ temper and how he is when he drinks, but that doesn’t prove anything. Facts.

Mary took a deep breath, started to feel better, but then she became fearful again. If Chris didn’t attack JD, who did? Nathan was right, whoever did this didn’t seem to care that JD was the sheriff. If JD didn’t recover soon, Four Corners would have no law for a while, except for the hired guns. And if...if Chris was responsible, how long would the townspeople trust the others?

No, wait, Mary, first things first. Facts.

Mary reached into her desk drawer, pulled out a pad of paper. Whatever else this brutality was, it was news, and she had to put it in her paper. Picking up a pen, she wrote, “Sheriff wounded in nighttime attack.” Then she quickly sketched out what she knew in a few swift, incomplete sentences.

It didn’t end up being a long article, only a few paragraphs, and Mary decided to wait until she knew more to finish it. The paper wasn’t being set up until tomorrow anyway, so she had plenty of time. Her objective journalist’s mind was fully alert now and working, and Mary was seriously beginning to consider that perhaps Vin was wrong, that Chris didn’t do it, and she would go outside later to see the almost familiar sight of the men she’d come to know saddling up to ride after whoever was responsible for JD’s injuries. Buck would probably be at the lead, he did seem to set quite a store by the boy...

I should talk to some people, get some more information. Didn’t Vin say something about the bartender? I should go to the saloon first...

As Mary was mapping out her strategy, the door to her office opened and one of the townspeople came in. She immediately recognized him as Mr. Conklin, one of the older and more outspoken citizens of the town.

“You hear, Mrs. Travis?” he asked in a loud voice, coming right up to her desk and putting his hands on his hips.

Mary looked up at him and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Conklin, I - “

“You wire the judge?”

Mary blinked. “Well, no, I don’t know that we need him here just - “

“Well, you should. This place is going to go the hell pretty quick.”

Mary cocked her head. Mr. Conklin had always been somewhat of an alarmist, and he was one of the more vocal opponents of her father-in-law’s decision to hire Chris and his men to protect the town. “Now, Mr. Conklin, rest assured my father - “

But the man wasn’t listening; he had started pacing, and interrupted her with, “You see that mess out there? That sheriff’s going to die, and once that happens his gunslinging friends are going to head for the hills and we’ll never see ‘em again. You know what I heard?”

Mary was starting to get a headache. “What?”

“I heard it was one of them that done it! You believe that? That one that dresses all in black. Billy told me he sent the sheriff after him, said he was piss-drunk last night and looking for trouble.”

“Oh, now, Mr. Conklin,” Mary said, trying to ignore the painful twinge in her stomach, “that’s just a rumor. We don’t have all the facts - “

“Facts!” Mr. Conklin spat the word, came to her desk and slammed both hands down on it, staring her in the face. “You want facts? That alleyway’s covered in blood. That’s a fact! Sheriff’s been beat to within an inch of his life. That’s a fact! That hired gun you’re so thick with was drunkern’ a skunk last night, the sheriff was sent after him, and now our only law’s been beat about to death and Larabee ain’t been seen today. That’s three facts, strung together. Now you’re a smart lady. What does that tell you?”

Mary sat stone-still, staring at Mr. Conklin, willing herself not to respond. She had nothing to respond with.

“I always said those hired guns were trouble,” Mr. Conklin said in grim satisfaction as he backed away from the desk. “And I was right.”

Mary watched him back away, unable to think for a moment.

“You better wire the judge,” Mr. Conklin said, nodding in encouragement as he reached the door. “We got problems comin’, and I don’t want those outlaws bein’ the only thing that stands between us and the end of the world.”

He opened the door and walked out, leaving Mary badly rattled. _Well, that’s Conklin._ She glanced at her notepad, the spidery lines there. He’s just scared, and talks too much, and spreads rumors. She needed facts, and she needed them now, quickly, before the rumors spread and Chris saw himself looking at a lynch mob. Yes, she needed to know the truth. It might exonerate Chris. It probably would exonerate him. Resolutely, Mary picked up her notepad and stood up, looking toward the door.

For a brief, flashback instant she saw Chris standing there, all in black, his eyes burning white hot as he looked at her, no, glared at her with thinly-masked anger that stopped just short of rampaging hatred. Barely-constrained rage vibrated in every inch of him, and he looked dangerous, brutal and uncontrollable. He was looking at Mary like he wanted to tear her apart. Then he spoke.

“ _Lady, I am the bad element.”_

“Oh.” Mary said unconsciously, and sat down again, hard, remembering the fear she felt when she first met Chris, the thin veil of easily-torn self-control she’d seen in those ice blue eyes. The truth might clear Chris, she realized. It might...

Or it might damn him forever.

It was quite a while before Mary regained her composure, and felt strong enough to leave the office again.

  
  


Ezra Standish walked casually down the stairs that led from his boarding room on the second floor of the saloon to the main rooms below. As was his usual habit, he had slept past ten, then had risen and at a leisurely pace done his morning ablutions in preparation for the day’s dealings. Lucrative dealings, he hoped, for Ezra was a gambler and any day that ended with his purse weighing more than it did in the morning was a good day to him.

Yawning and fastening his cufflinks, Ezra made his way down the stairs and looked around the saloon. Hm, not too many people. Well, it was early yet. Ah, there’s that group of traveling salesmen I met last night, the ones from the hotel. Ezra smiled as he remembered the poker game he’d enjoyed with them. They were good players, and it was a pleasure to actually have a challenge sitting at the table, even if they were city types who seemed to look down on the small Western town they were passing through. They had sneered at the other patrons and congratulated Ezra on his being able to retain his civility in such barbaric surroundings. Ezra had smiled and thanked them, but was surprised that their rude remarks about the town had offended him. He didn’t let on, of course; he’d simply smiled and taken most of their money. It was the best revenge. Then he’d invited them back to game with him.

And, it seems, they had accepted.

“Gentlemen,” Ezra said smoothly as he approached the table where the men were sitting.

The stocky man in the checkered grey suit - Sherson, Ezra remembered - waved to Ezra and said, “Ah, Mr. Standish, good morning! Join us?”

Ezra grinned, showing his gold tooth. “Certainly, gentlemen, just allow me to get some morning libations.”

The others nodded and gave him oily grins. Salesmen. Ezra walked over to the bar, not even looking at Billy, who put a small glass of brandy on the bar. Ezra stretched his legs, in no great hurry to sit down among those fancy-pants sharks, and listened with one ear to their conversation, so he would know best how to play them when he joined in.

“I say two days.” the fat man in the cheap suit, who Ezra recalled as being named Childers, said firmly.

The man next to him, an older gent named Durning, shook his head and said, “No way. You see all that blood? Ten bucks says this afternoon.”

Another man, a thin fellow Ezra knew only as Tims, laughed. “You’re a cold man, Durning.”

“Oh, not at all,” Durning replied easily as he took a drink of beer. “Come on, it’s not like a man’s death means anything out here. These cowboys shoot each other all the time, it don’t mean nothing.”

“Well, I guess you’re right.” Sherson rubbed his chin. “But this man wasn’t shot, he was beaten. Takes longer to die. I give it a week. He’ll linger long enough to let me win.”

The other men chuckled, and Tims said, “Well, I’m not going to miss out on this. I’ll say ten bucks that he’s already dead.”

“Ha!” Sherson’s eyebrows went up. “Now I didn’t think of that. You might win, Tims.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Ezra had picked up his drink and wandered over to the table.

“Oh! Have a seat, Mr. Standish.” Sherson said amiably, gesturing to an empty chair.

“In a moment.” Ezra replied, his keen pale-green eyes scanning the group. “Am I missing a wager here?”

“Well - yes,” Durning admitted reluctantly. “I don’t know if it’s your kind of gambling, but you can join in if you like.”

“What are we wagering on?” Ezra asked. He sat down as if he hadn’t heard a word of their conversation until that point.

“You believe it, Standish?” Sherson said in amazed tones. “I spend most of last night tryin’ to convince these guys the west is the most lawless place on earth, and damned if this town didn’t prove me right.”

“Feller got beat up last night,” Tims said. “Right out in the alley, by the jail.”

“Do tell.” Ezra sipped his drink. “And you are all wagering on his passing?”

Tims looked a bit embarrassed, but Durning shrugged his shoulders. “Why not? Life is so cheap out here, these idiots are killing each other by the barrelful. We got forty bucks sitting on the table so far, what do you say?”

Ezra’s eyelids moved, not a blink but a half-blink, as he took another sip. “What are the bids so far?”

“Um - “ Durning thought a moment. “Well, Sherson gives it a week, Childers says two days, I give it till this afternoon. Tims thinks he might have already kicked.”

“Hm.” Ezra’s skin crawled at these men’s nonchalant wagering over a man’s life, but he’d seen worse things in his travels. Much worse. “Before I decide, may I inquire as to the physical type of the injured gentleman, and the extent of his injuries?”

Childers laughed and looked around. “Don’t you guys love how he talks? Well, there’s a bunch of rumors going around, nobody know for sure how bad he’s hurt, but there’s a ton of blood out in the alley, on the brick wall, so it’s gotta be bad. Broken ribs, bruises, probably he got hit in the head. Real rough stuff.”

“And to make things more interesting,” Sherson added gleefully, “I heard the assailant was one of the hired guns some judge got to look over this town. Some guy named Larabee.”

“Really,” Ezra said, not reacting visibly. _My God. Chris finally went berserk and killed somebody._ Well, with his temper, it was bound to happen sooner or later...

“Did you guys talk to any of the rustics out there?” Childers chuckled as he jabbed a thumb toward the door. “You’d think Lincoln had been shot all over again, the way they’re squawking over this.”

“Yeah, the whole town’s going nuts.” Durning agreed with a smile. “Bunch of hicks. Like a burg this small can’t function without a sheriff.”

Ezra had lifted his glass to take another drink, paused and looked at Durning. “Without a sheriff? What do you mean?”

“Well - the injured guy is the sheriff.” Durning explained. “Newspaper lady told me.”

Ezra put his drink down very fast.

“He was up until this morning, anyway,” Sherson mumbled, fixing his eyes on his drink. “I think I saw him yesterday. Geez, he didn’t look old enough to shave yet.”

“Yeah, the good die young,” Durning said sarcastically, “Especially around here, I guess. So, Standish, what do you say? You in?”

Ezra was standing, his face a carefully arranged mask of blandness. Only two small spots of color on his cheeks betrayed any emotion at all.

“Mr. Standish?” Sherson said, a little loudly.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” Ezra said in a low, preoccupied voice, then quickly pulled his chair out, turned around and walked out of the saloon.

The salesmen stared after him for a moment. Finally Tims said, “You don’t suppose he knows the guy?”

“You kidding?” Durning laughed. “Why would the local con man have an in with the sheriff? Come on, guys, put your money on the table. I still say, he dies this afternoon.”

  
  


Nathan pushed at the reluctant window sash, finally getting it to rise a couple of inches. It was almost noon, and the room was becoming warm. A cool breeze blew in, and he smiled in slight gratification before returning to his duties.

Josiah was still sitting by JD’s bedside, where he’d been since midmorning, not saying a whole lot but gazing quietly into the boy’s battered face. Nathan thought maybe he was praying. And that was a good thing, because JD needed a lot of prayers. They all did, if what Josiah had told him was true.

And it was beginning to look like it was. Nathan sat down by JD and picked up a clean cloth to dip in the washbasin. He glanced at JD, who was still unconscious, his pale face fixed and unmoving, as if he was made of wax. The bruises there were deepening, spreading and growing darker as bruises did, and against JD’s fair skin the aggravations looked frighteningly stark and vivid. Nathan wrung out the cloth and laid it carefully on the afflicted youth’s forehead, and watched for any sign of a response.

There wasn’t any.

Josiah’s eyes moved from JD’s face to Nathan’s, and he said in a low rumble. “You need some rest, doc.”

Nathan blinked, shook his head as his sorrowful eyes met Josiah’s. “What are we gonna do, Josiah? If that girl is right, and Chris is the one, what are we gonna do?”

Josiah’s expression became solemn as his eyes once more went to the sleeping face fringed with drooping black hair that only half-hid the row of neat stitches, the angry cuts and bruises. “I don’t know, brother Nate. I only know that in his right mind, Chris would turn the man inside out who would do this to JD. Or you, or me, or anybody.”

Nathan pursed his lips, gently moved JD’s bandaged arm to turn down the coverlet and check his other wrappings. “And in his wrong mind, he could kill a man. I know the people here, they ain’t likely to forgive and forget. They’ll string him up.”

Josiah nodded soberly. “Yes, Chris’ demons are legion. And they’ll get him killed if we don’t help him.”

“Help him?” Nathan sounded almost shocked, looking up from where he’d been checking JD’s collarbone.

At that moment the door to Nathan’s room opened, and Vin came in, his face as downcast and serious as everyone else’s. He closed the door quietly, walked to Nathan’s side and turned his worried blue eyes to the motionless form on the bed.

“How’s he doin’?” He asked in quiet tones.

“No change.” Nathan admitted tiredly, giving Vin a searching look. “How’s it going out there?”

“Gettin’ worse.” Vin made his way to the end of the bed, put his hands on the curved footboard, his eyes not leaving JD’s beaten face. “Crowd’s gettin’ restless, askin’ questions.”

“You see Chris?” Josiah wanted to know.

Vin nodded, looked down at the footboard as he spoke. “Yep.” There was a very long, weighted pause before he looked up again and said, “His hands were all torn up. Like he’d been fightin’.”

There was a sudden heaviness in the air, an invisible presence of something terrible that none of the men wanted to acknowledge. No one moved, or spoke, for a long moment.

Finally Vin said, “Buck wanted to talk to him alone, so I went and looked over where it happened. Followed the tracks.”

Nathan and Josiah both looked at him, and there was hope in their eyes, a lonely little scrap of hope that the next words out of Vin’s mouth would bring absolution.

Vin shook his head, his voice leaden with sadness. “Led right to Chris’ door. “

“Oh, Lord.” Josiah sighed, and ran a huge hand through his curling hair.

Nathan heard voices in the streets, looked over his shoulder at the open window. “Do they know?”

Vin shrugged a little. “They’re scared, but they ain’t stupid. Bartender’s got a big mouth, plus Chris is layin’ low. They know, but they ain’t got no proof. Yet.”

Nathan sighed dejectedly, tucked the sheet under JD’s injured right arm, over his left which was still bound to his side to protect his broken collarbone and shattered ribs. Josiah helped him, and after Nathan was finished he looked up at Vin, saw the former bounty hunter’s jaw tense as he scanned JD’s injuries.

The door opened again and Buck entered, a dark cloud seeming to envelop him, full of electricity and anger. He didn’t close the door as Vin had, just stomped into the room and stood in the middle of it, glaring at the occupants with his hands on his hips.

Vin walked over and closed the door, eyeing Buck curiously as he returned. “You talk to Chris?”

“Never mind him.” Buck said in a tight rasp, his burning eyes flicking to Vin for a moment. Then Buck looked at JD, and his expression changed from anger to exhausted concern. Moving to stand just behind Nathan, Buck asked, “Anything?”

“Not yet,” Nathan said as gently as he could. He sensed that Buck was wound tight as a watch spring, and didn’t want to say anything that would set him off.

“God damn.” Buck growled quietly, taking off his hat and walking back to the middle of the room. He paced it in a circle, running his hand through his hair, once, twice, finally stopping and staring out into the street.

Josiah and Vin traded anxious glances, then both men looked at Buck. He continued to stare out the window, turning his hat in his hands, crumpling and twisting it. Nathan concentrated on soothing JD’s injuries, but he didn’t have to look at Buck to sense his presence. It was palpable, a sparking mixture of the concern and outrage and helplessness that they all felt, but amplified. They were all full of confusion; Buck was wild with it.

For what seemed a long time no words were spoken. Josiah and Vin continued to hover next to the bed, watching Nathan dab the wet cloth on JD’s swollen, silent face, across the pale forehead crossed with cuts and scratches, over one hurt cheek and onto split and bloodied lips. Buck alone didn’t watch, continued to look out the window, unwilling or unable to share his thoughts with the group, and this alone made the other men nervous; Buck was easily the most open, talkative member of their makeshift family, and when he didn’t talk, it seemed like the calm before the biggest storm they’d ever seen.

A few minutes later Ezra walked in, and the storm broke.

The room had been so quiet for so long that they all started when the door opened with a loud thunk. Ezra strode in, his face maroon with a fury that made Nathan blink in surprise - he’d never seen Ezra look so upset.

The gambler made no greetings, no acknowledgements of anyone in the room except Nathan. Coming to stand next to Vin, he gripped the iron railing of the footboard with one hand and said to the healer, “I’ve heard - a disturbing rumor that Mr. Dunne was the victim of a - an accident last evening.” His green eyes went to JD, then back to Nathan, and they were huge and round. “Is he - will he recover?”

Nathan glanced at Buck, who was still facing the window. “Don’t know yet. He’s been hurt pretty - “

“And I also understand,” Ezra hurried forward, his face growing darker yet, “that...” He swallowed hard. “That Mr. Larabee is the perpetrator of these injuries. Is this true?”

Josiah looked at Vin, who looked at Buck, who still stared out the window, and when Nathan turned to look at Buck he saw that the man was trembling as he stood there.

His eyes on his hands, Vin said quietly,. “Looks that way. I wish it weren’t - “

“Then, if that is the case,” Ezra said in the same tight, high tones that suggested that he, like Buck, was on the very verge of becoming completely unhinged, “may I suggest that we waste no time in apprehending Mr. Larabee and making sure that fucking son of a bitch is punished?”

Everybody looked at Ezra. He cursed some, but no one had ever heard him use that vulgarism before. Even Buck glanced at him.

The silence in the room was thick and hot with unsaid realities. The men looked at each other, but it was Nathan who finally spoke.

“Well, what are we gonna do?” he said, looking around him at the men who, up until that morning, had always acknowledged Chris as their leader.

“Is it even a discussion?” Ezra asked in astonishment. “We are the law in this town. Clearly the law has been broken. Chris Larabee is the criminal. What more do we need?”

Vin leaned back, thumbed a hand over his pantswaist. “We take Chris in, there’s no telling how folks will react.”

“They’ll be happy,” Ezra said archly, “that we captured Mr. Dunne’s assailant.”

“Or they’ll be petrified,” Nathan observed, “that it turned out a man the judge hired to protect ‘em could do somethin’ like this.”

“Chris didn’t do this,” Josiah said softly. “His demons did.”

Ezra’s eyes went round with horror as he looked at Josiah. “Sir, you are not attempting to suggest that Mr. Larabee is not responsible for his actions?”

“No,” Josiah said evenly. “I’m sayin’ he needs to have a chance to get rid of what’s tormentin’ him, so he can atone for what he’s done. He won’t do much healin’ at the end of a rope.”

Vin was regarding Josiah thoughtfully, and next to him Ezra was shaking his head. Buck still hadn’t said anything, and Nathan was dabbing the cloth over JD’s face, his face solemn and silent.

After a beat, Vin asked, “You got something in mind, Josiah?”

Josiah regarded the group with his gray eyes. “We know Chris better than anyone in this town. Anyone here want to tell me under what circumstances Chris would do this, if he was sober? Anyone in this room want to prove to me that, if Chris knew what he was doin’, that he would go ahead and beat JD into the ground for no reason?”

The room was silent. Buck hung his head.

“The Chris Larabee that did this is not the Chris Larabee we’d be hangin’,” Josiah went on. “Because if it were, I can think of many times when any one of us could have found ourselves under his fists. And we didn’t.”

He looked at Ezra pointedly, but the gambler scowled off the unsaid accusation.

“Are you saying,” Ezra said hotly, “that because Mr. Larabee was intoxicated and not in control of himself, that he should not pay for his crime?”

“I’m sayin,” Josiah stood up, towering over the other men as he spoke, “That if we brought Chris in now, he would be dead before Judge Travis could get here. For all his faults JD’s mighty well-liked, and Chris...well, he isn’t by some. Townsfolk don’t want atonement right now. They want revenge.”

“Revenge.” Buck said, the first word he’d spoken in a long while.

“And if we give it to ‘em,” Josiah continued, “Judge Travis won’t have any choice but to let us go. At best, we’ll be the unwitting followers of a murderer. At worst, we’ll be branded as bloodthirsty and outlaw as Chris is thought to be. No one in town will trust us to catch a stray dog, let alone help it with its troubles. And when JD wakes up - ” Josiah moved, walking around the bed, “Chris will be dead, we will have all fallen from grace, and he won’t be sheriff anymore because the townspeople will be afraid that he’ll turn out to be as bad as any of us.”

Eyes shifted to the still-somnolent form on the bed. Josiah walked to where Buck stood, shoulders rigid, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the window. Josiah looked into Buck’s wounded blue eyes until the gunslinger turned to him, then said, “Now, I can put up with a lot of things in my life, and I have. But I don’t want to be the man to tell that boy that while he was sleeping we killed his hero, split up the group and lost him his job. Do you?”

Buck’s eyes were haunted, far away as he shook his head. “I just want things set right,” he said in plaintive, husky tones, his voice barely a whisper.

“I know, brother,” Josiah said consolingly, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I do, too.”

Ezra’s face was still red, but he didn’t raise any more objections. Vin cocked his head and asked, “What do you think should we do, Josiah?”

“I think...” Josiah moved away from Buck a little, but remained in the middle of the room. “We need to get Chris out of here, quickly, give him a chance to find his peace before he’s brought to justice.”

“You mean give him a chance to run,” Ezra growled.

“He won’t run,” Buck said firmly, giving Ezra a piercing look.

Josiah paused, then said, “In the meantime, we’ll tell the good folks here that Chris is gone after the man who assaulted JD. We’ll wire the judge, and give Chris time to exorcise his demons and return. By then, things should quiet down and we can have a civil proceedings instead of a lynch mob.”

Vin leaned back, clearly considering Josiah’s proposal. Ezra, however, was still unconvinced.

“And if Mr. Larabee does not see fit to return?” he asked, his Southern tones dripping with certainty of the worst. “And if Mr. Dunne succumbs? Then what?”

“Well, then we form a posse,” Josiah said in heavy, serious tones. “And we hunt him down for a murderer. And we let him hang.”

They all looked at him, each man absorbing the implications of the five of them forming a posse and hunting Chris Larabee down. Hunting their leader, their friend. And JD might die.

“This is a nightmare,” Buck said quietly, his tortured eyes still gazing out the window. “It’s a god-damned, awful nightmare.”

“That it is, brother Wilmington,” Josiah agreed as he moved back to his chair and sat down, and as the others watched he gently laid his hand on JD’s head, into the wandering black locks that fell over eyes that didn’t flutter or move in the slightest. “That it most certainly is.”

  
  


The salesman Timothy Alderman, better known to his friends as Tims, strode lazily out of the saloon clutching his beer mug, leaned against a post, and shook his head.

_Hm. Looks like rain._ Tims eyes the sky casually as he waited for his friends to join him, and took a drink of beer. The day had started off pleasant, but now dark clouds were rolling in, bringing with them the promise of wet and forbidding weather. Eh, we’ll stay another night. Gotta see how this whole thing shakes out.

Tims pondered that he should be depressed; all reports indicated that the man they’d wagered on hadn’t died yet, so he’d lost the bet they all made. But he wasn’t depressed, not really, because what was happening now was so fascinating he felt like he was in one of those foreign countries you read about, exotic places where they cut off people’s hands for stealing a loaf of bread. Nothing like this is St. Louis, that’s for sure.

Looking across the street, Tims saw the same groups of townspeople he’d seen that morning, milling around the jail and muttering amongst themselves. _Sheesh._ He took another drink. _Don’t these people have anything else to do?_

But still, it was fascinating because of the rumors he’d heard; the sheriff was dead, a hired gun was responsible, and his hired-gun friends were trying to save his neck. Well, according to the undertaker they’d talked to, the first rumor wasn’t true, at least no one had contacted him. As to the others, who knew, but Tims had heard enough bad talk about Chris Larabee that day to make him really want to see the bastard up close. What a letter home this would make!

The saloon doors thwapped open, and Times turned to see the other salesmen wander out onto the sidewalk just as the jailhouse doors opened across the street.

“What’s going on, Tims?” Durning asked curiously as he stepped up to the edge of the pine boards.

“How the hell should I know?” Tims answered. At that moment someone walked through the jail door and onto the walk. It was a tall man with short, curly grey hair, and as Tims watched the townspeople clustered around him, and he held one hand up for silence.

“Is JD dead?” one of the women in the crowd asked anxiously.

The tall man shook his head and said in a loud voice, “No, the sheriff is still with us. Nathan’s takin’ care of him right now. He’s pretty banged up, but he’ll be all right.”

Tims heard Durning laugh. “What a lie. Little bastard’s probably already dead.”

“If he is,” Tims noted, “I win the bet.”

The crowd’s shouted questions nearly drowned out Durning’s chuckle.

“Did you catch the man that done it?” a farmer wanted to know.

“Not yet,” the tall man answered. “But we’re lookin’ real hard.”

“I heard it was Larabee!” another man accused. “Where’s he hidin’ at?”

The crowd bubbled up again, and the tall man had to hold up his hand and wait for silence before he answered. “We don’t know who JD’s attacker is, but once we get a good idea Chris is going to go huntin’ for him.”

Durning laughed again, nudged his friends with his elbow and yelled out, “Bullshit!”

A few people in the crowd turned their way, eyeing them distrustfully, then turned back to the tall man. As Tims laughed at Durning’s remark, he noticed a tall, dark-haired man walking at the edge of the crowd. He was dressed cleanly but shabbily, and was eyeing the tall man on the porch with keen interest.

He looked like an outlaw. Tim took in the rough face, the arrogant swagger. It occured to him that outlaws would probably like to know that Larabee was gone, that the sheriff was dead; they’d probably be running into this town in swarms, like locusts, shooting off their guns and carrying away anything that wasn’t nailed down.

A real outlaw. Tims was thrilled.

One of the crowd, an older gent with a flat hat and spectacles, stepped forward and said, “Why should we believe you? You’re one of Larabee’s gang - you’re probably hiding him somewhere so’s he can’t be brought to justice!”

The crowd reacted to this, but the tall man said quietly, “Is it justice you want, Mr. Conklin, or a hangin’? Sometimes you can’t have both.”

The crowd murmured a little more, and the tall man shifted his weight and said, “Whoever hurt JD is gonna pay for it, no matter who he is. I can’t say Mr. Larabee is responsible, but if he was you have my word he’d be brought to justice just like anyone else.”

“Your word!” Mr. Conklin spat, turning to the crowd. “What’s that worth?”

The tall man cocked his head, regarded the nervous man coldly. “It’s worth more than accusations and hasty conclusions right now. Now you folks go on home. We’ll let you know if something happens.”

A few people walked away, but that was all. One of the remaining citizens asked, “Is the judge coming?”

“He’ll be here in just a few days,” the tall man assured them. “And we’ll keep watch till then.”

“I’ll bet you will,” Conklin muttered to those standing near him. “You’ll watch Larabee’s back while he’s escaping!”

The tall man left the porch then, walked over to Conklin and stood right in front of him. He really was a very tall man, and Conklin was pretty short, so the effect was dramatic.

“Mr. Conklin,” the tall man said in a quiet but commanding tone, “you’re agitated, and it’s making me powerful sore. Please go home.”

Conklin sputtered, said nothing, then turned and abruptly left.

The tall man addressed the crowd. “Folks, as soon as we know anything we’ll fill you in. Until then, it’s best you just go about your business and not worry.”

The people seemed unsure, milled about, finally flowed apart, muttering. Only the dark-haired outlaw remained, and Tims saw him leaning against a support post nearby, calmly smoking a cheroot and peering at the tall man intently. The tall man looked at him, then turned and walked off the porch. The dark-haired man glared after, pulled out his gun and idly twirled it, ignoring the fearful stares of passersby.

“God dang,” Tims said in delight, his eyes riveted on the fascinating outlaw. “The wild west. Ain’t it the damnedest thing?”

  
  


Sitting at her desk, Mary drew her hand across her eyes and sighed. God, she was tired.

The short article on JD’s beating was getting a little longer, but she didn’t know what to put in. She’d talked to the bartender, some townspeople, a few others, but what she learned she didn’t want to report.

Facts, Mary, she heard Stephen’s voice say. Facts. Even if it breaks your heart.

Where was Chris? Mary gazed out the windows that showed how dark it was getting outside. We’ll have rain soon, she realized, and the thought depressed her. She’d gone to Chris’ room, but he was gone, or he wouldn’t answer his locked door. A crowd had gathered outside, a vengeful, angry crowd she had discovered, one that was full of loaded questions. Will the judge hang Larabee when he comes? What if it turns out they were all in on this together? You know, get rid of the sheriff so they could take over the town? What if they all planned this?

Mary had been aghast at that last question, and still was. How could anyone think that the men who had been protecting this town for so long could even conceive to ambush JD in an alley and beat him up like that? Surely the townspeople had seen how JD was like a little brother to all of them. Surely they saw how much they all liked his enthusiasm and good humor. Did they really think these men would bushwhack JD? How could they?

Facts. Mary sifted through her notes, her weary eyes scanning them reluctantly. Chris Larabee was last seen at two-thirty this morning. He was very drunk, according to the bartender, and in a very bad temper. Soon after Chris left the saloon, the bartender went and roused Sheriff Dunne, who promised that he would ensure that Larabee made it home safely. Then, a short while later, a young Mexican girl witnessed Mr. Larabee fighting someone in the alley by the jail, the same alley where sheriff Dunne was found some forty-five minutes later...

Mary groaned and pressed her hands to her temples. It couldn’t be, but it had to be, and where was Chris? Distant thunder rumbled as she picked up her pen. Only Chris could save himself now, it seemed, and he had vanished. She had gone to Nathan’s room, found solemn faces there in the gloom, and JD still lying inanimate on Nathan’s bed. Was it her imagination, or was JD starting to fade visibly, almost looking transparent in the dim light? It was as if his spirit was no longer in his body, but hovering nearby, unable to make up its mind whether to leave or not.

And none of Chris’ friends had seen him. Josiah and Nathan were polite, but Buck didn’t even acknowledge her presence, which was very odd for Buck. She saw the helplessness in their faces, knew that momentarily at least they felt as confused as she did, and so she had smiled encouragingly, accepted their request to wire the judge as soon as possible, and backed out. And come home.

And now, here she was, a deskful of accusations against Chris staring at her, and her responsibility to report on it weighing across her shoulders like a cross, and a storm rolling in.

She sighed. Facts.

Mary picked up her pen, was going to start writing something, when she glanced up at the door and saw someone silhouetted there against the gloom.

_Chris._ Her breath caught in her throat as she began to stand up.

But no, the man was too short, and stockier. It was Ezra.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Travis,” the gambler said in his Southern tones, removing his hat as he walked into her office. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh - not at all,” Mary stammered, smoothing her dress to cover her consternation. She saw the oddly distressed look on Ezra’s face, felt her heart constrict. “It’s not JD, is it? He’s not - “

“No,” Ezra answered somewhat blankly, looking at Mary earnestly. “Mr. Dunne is still living, thanks to Mr. Jackson’s immeasurable talents.”

“That’s good,” Mary said lamely.

“However,” Ezra continued, and Mary noticed his voice was getting tighter. “he has yet to awake. Apparently his attacker has left the young man with...injuries from which he may never recover.”

It took Mary a moment to find her voice. Ezra was usually so smooth and facile that you didn’t know what he was thinking; she wasn’t used to his emotions being so bare in his voice, as they were now. “Oh - well, I’m - “

“What I’ve come to tell you,” Ezra continued, in a voice dripping with anger, “is that it seems Mr. Larabee has admitted being the attacker.”

“He has?” Mary asked in a tiny voice. Oh, no. Oh, no.

Ezra nodded. “This according to Mr. Wilmington. It has been decided,” Ezra began to stalk around the office, drifting among the pools of lamplight made brighter by the darkening sky outside, “That Mr. Larabee should be secreted away for his own safety, until Judge Travis can arrive and he can be tried fairly.”

“Oh.” Mary was trying to think, and deduce Ezra’s motives at the same time. She found it impossible.

“It was also decided,” Ezra said, his face glowing bright, then falling into shadow as he walked, “That we appeal to you for...discretion...in your journalistic responsibilities. There are those, it seems, who fear a bounty will be placed on Mr. Larabee’s head if his crimes are known while he is abroad.”

Mary’s head came back as she moved to sit back down. Gad, she hadn’t thought of that. “Um...well, I’ll see what I can - “

“Mrs. Travis.”

There was a choking note in Ezra’s voice that made Mary stop halfway into her seat and look at him. He stood before her desk, illuminated in golden lamplight, his face ominous and flint-hard as he spoke.

“Mrs. Travis,” he repeated, and his words had razor edges to them. “You may consider this request if you wish, but speaking only for myself - don’t.”

Mary blinked, sat down all the way and folded her hands. There had to be more.

“Mr...Larabee...” Ezra stared at the hat in his hand as he spoke, picked invisible pieces of lint off it, “Is quite respected by those closest to him, and their affection has caused them to lose their objectivity. I did not agree with this course of action the others are allowing him to take, but as one among many, I cannot prevent it.”

Mary nodded, could think of nothing to say.

“But I for one am not afraid for Mr. Larabee to suffer.” Ezra’s eyes went to Mary then, and there was alarming fury in them, and terrible hurt, “If he is alone, somewhere, and a bounty is made, I for one would not remove the danger from him. He chose this path, and he must take the consequences that come of it.”

“I see.” Mary said, as evenly as she could. “So you have no loyalty to Mr. Larabee, then?”

“To command my loyalty, one must first command my respect,” Ezra answered, shaking his head and frowning. “And I respect no man less than one who cannot control himself.”

The way Ezra said these words was so biting, so full of animosity and bitterness that Mary was genuinely terrified. So she sat still and listened.

Ezra paused, cleared his throat, gave Mary an apologetic smile. “I believe I’ve frightened you, Mrs. Travis. My apologies. I am not accustomed to explaining myself to people. You must believe that my...that to confess that my opinion of Mr. Larabee has fallen to its lowest possible depths causes me no end of despair. It is not something I do lightly.”

“Then why do it?” Mary asked sympathetically.

“Because, Mrs. Travis,” Ezra said in a rough voice, “although I would deny it to my grave, I have come to ... respect my associates, including Mr. Dunne. Perhaps especially Mr. Dunne. He had...has a capacity for trusting people that I have lacked from the earliest age. He has a light inside of him that was extinguished in me long ago.”

Mary wondered at the poetry of Ezra’s words, thought suddenly that he was right. She’d never thought about JD that way, but Ezra was right.

“Because of Mr. Larabee’s actions - ” Ezra cleared his throat again. “It is now possible that our young friend may die. Or if he awakens, as a result of the blow to his head, he may find himself blind. Or deaf. Or unable to walk. Mrs. Travis, are you aware of the lives of those in this world with such infirmities?”

“Well, I...” Mary trailed off. She really didn’t know.

“As a result of Mr. Larabee’s inability to stop himself from uncorking that first bottle,” Ezra said in a thick voice, and Mary could swear she saw tears in his eyes. No, that was impossible...”Mr. Dunne may spend the next sixty or seventy years staring out of a window from a wheelchair and wishing he had died. Or perhaps he will die, and the rest of us will spend the next sixty years wishing it had been one of us instead.”

Mary sat silent, speechless. The mental image came to her of JD - bright, energetic, rambunctious JD a motionless, dejected figure slumped in a wooden wheelchair, staring glumly out a window at a world he could no longer take part of. She suddenly wanted to cry.

“I have respected Mr. Larabee before this,” Ezra said almost apologetically, “because I believed him to have control of his emotions. But now I see he lets them be the other way around. Mr. Dunne lies unaware and near death because Mr. Larabee could not stop himself from listening to his baser instincts. And while the others may desire to give him time to atone, I, for one, feel the time is long past. He has nearly done murder, and he should pay for it.”

_You’ve got to defend Chris._ Mary blurted out, “But Mr. Standish, Chris was drunk! He didn’t know what he was doing!”

Ezra paused, placed his hat on his head, and gave Mary a melancholy look.

“If Mr. Dunne dies,” he said softly, “I doubt the Almighty will let him return, simply because Mr. Larabee didn’t know he was killing him.”

And with that Ezra turned and walked out of the office, and Mary heard the distant thunder as the first raindrops started to fall.

  
  


In the lobby of Virginia’s Hotel, four businessmen were sitting playing cards and sighing with bored frustration.

The man known as Durning took out his pocket watch, frowned at it, put it back. Thunder rumbled outside, and he turned his head to look at the slashing rain outside the tall windows.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said with a sigh as he turned back to the others, “this keeps up there won’t be a stage tomorrow.”

The others had mixed reactions, from Tims’ shrug of apathy to Sherson’s scowl of impatient disappointment.

“We should have left this morning,” Sherson said regretfully.

“And miss all the fun?” Childers said as he fanned his cards in one fat hand. “Not everyday you get to practically witness a murder.”

“It’s every day out here,” Durning pointed out, glancing at the chips piled in the middle of the lobby table before adding a few of his own. “I’ll raise two.”

“Yes, well,” Sherson muttered as he glared at the mist that hung outside, “The lawless west is entertaining, but it won’t pay for Hattie’s summer wardrobe. We gotta get out of this hick town or I’ll go broke.”

There was a silence then, reluctant acquiescence. Tims studied his cards, threw a few chips in. “Did you guys notice we didn’t see Standish tonight?” he asked conversationally.

Durning shrugged. “Maybe we scared him off.”

“Or maybe he left town,” Childers suggested. “Them gambler types, they never stay in one place too long.”

“Speaking of that,” Sherson grumbled, “I’m stuck here one more day I’ll lose that commission from Ridge City.”

“Oh, cripes, Frank,” Tims answered, waving toward the now-vacant hotelkeeper’s desk that sat in the darkened corner. “Why don’t you sell these people a safe? They could probably use a better one.”

“You’re telling me.” Sherson glanced at the closed door that led to the hotel’s office. “The one they got now’s a piece of shit.”

Tims shrugged, the others shook their heads at the general concept of shabby quality.

After a pause Durning said, “Oh, did I tell you guys what that newspaper lady told me today?”

“No, what?” Sherson asked in a tone that yelled out that he couldn’t care less.

“She told me if that Larabee fella stays they’ll likely hang him. Like as soon as they found him, isn’t that a hoot?”

“Well, that’s the law of the west, Durning,” Tims said lightly, looking over his cards and putting one down to pick up another.

“She also said,” Durning continued, as if he was telling the best joke in the world, “that her father-in-law hired him and some other men to be the law here. Including the sheriff fella that got beat up.”

Childers’ eyebrows went up. “Larabee beat up one of his own men? That’s cold.”

Durning nodded hugely, happy his news had some impact. “She thinks Larabee is going to run.”

“You don’t say,” Sherson said in a tone that was growing increasingly annoyed.

“She sure did. Well - she didn’t put it in those words, but she said if he didn’t leave town he was as good as dead.”

“Huh.” Tims seemed impressed.

“That’s it,” Sherson growled in disgust, throwing down his cards and standing up. “I’ve had enough of this. You guys can play till dawn if you want to, I’m goin’ to bed. I’m down to my last hundred anyway.”

The other men gave him slightly surprised looks, but then leaned back into the game.

“Suit yourself.” Tims shrugged, fiddling with his cards. “See you in the morning.”

Sherson began to walk away, and as he did Childers leaned back in his chair and said, “You know, guys, maybe we better find another way out of this place. If Larabee’s gone and the sheriff bites it, there ain’t gonna be no law in this town.”

“What’s the matter, Jack?” Durning chuckled as he threw down a card. “’Fraid of getting murdered in your sleep?”

The other men smiled, and Tims said, “Yeah, besides, no law ain’t so bad. If we run out of here without paying, who’s going to arrest us?”

More chuckles. The click of poker chips.

“Hell,” Tims continued, in a good humor despite the depressing weather, “I bet we could make off with what’s inside that piece of shit hotel safe, nobody would even stop us.”

Nods of agreement, another cloud of cigar smoke. Tims grimaced at his cards, looked up and suddenly saw that Sherson had returned, and was standing behind Childers with his hands on his hips. Tims stared at him, the others noticed, and Sherson waited until they were all looking at him to speak.

“You know what?” he said in a low voice, full of confidence. “I bet we could.”

  
  


Thunder and lightning. A summer storm.

Nathan had seen the thickening clouds, knew as he tended to JD that it would be getting darker earlier than usual, and so he trimmed the wicks on his lanterns and lit all of them. So when the first flash of lightning was seen, he was ready. Buck sat by JD’s bedside, in the chair Josiah had vacated, his weathered gunslinger’s face soft and worried as his blue eyes silently pleaded with JD to wake up. Make a sound. Anything.

In her office, Mary watched the fat drops of water fall, her bleak mood made bleaker by the slanting rain. It would get dark soon, and stay that way. She avoided that last article she knew had to be written, hung back from her desk like it would bite her if she went close.

Vin patrolled, his hat and coat slowly soaking in the rain, steadfastly ignoring the open glares and muttered whisperings of the townspeople as he passed through the muddied streets on his horse. You don’t suppose, he heard. One of ‘them’. Don’t want their kind here anymore. Vin ignored them all, and did his job. And thought.

Ezra watched the storm from his room. He found company repulsive this evening, so he stayed locked away, tried to read but failed. So, he simply sat on his bed in the dark and watched the rain shimmer down the glass windowpanes in undulating waves, punctuated by flashes of bright-edged lightning, the crack of thunder so loud it rattled the windows. The soft swishing noise of rain running down swollen gutters may have been soothing, but for Ezra’s mood. He didn’t even try to keep out the dark thoughts that filled his mind, the memories of the large, long-ago cities and veterans’ hospitals he’d known in the South, full of shattered bodies and crippled minds. And now he thought of one body, one mind, caught in a timeless limbo, separated from his friends, lost and hurt. And the one responsible...

Josiah checked the candles in his church, watching them gutter fitfully against the wind that blew in gusts from the streets outside. It was getting late now, nearly nine. He thought about blowing the candles out and turning in, decided to let them burn a little longer. He moved about the church, taper in one hand, lighting the ones that had gone out, saw them struggle in the blasting wind that, try as he might, Josiah couldn’t keep out completely. Some stayed lit, others didn’t. Why did he feel sorry for the ones that couldn’t make it?

A crack of thunder, the rain fell harder. Josiah sighed as he stood at the front door, no use fighting the weather. Blow the candles out and go home.

“Josiah?”

A tentative voice, familiar but not its normal self. Josiah looked up, toward the back of the church.

It was Chris.

He was dressed in his usual black, soaking wet. He didn’t move, regarded Josiah with eyes that looked huge, horrified, as if they’d just seen something that was too terrible to absorb all at once. Chris didn’t move, so Josiah walked toward him, slowly.

“Chris,” he said simply, a low-rumbled word. As he drew closer, Josiah saw the drawn face, unshaven and unkempt, like the rest of him.

Chris took a shaking step, two, and sat down hard in one of the pews, covered his face with hands that Josiah saw were covered with scratches and scabs and dried blood.

JD’s blood.

“Oh, God,” Chris pleaded, his voice harsh and hopeless, muffled by his hands.

Josiah moved next to him, sat down. Waited.

It was a long time, or seemed like it, before Chris removed his hands from his face and stared forlornly at the flickering candles on the altar.

“JD?” he said finally, and Josiah saw tears in his eyes.

“He’s still alive,” Josiah said softly. “But he ain’t woke up yet.”

“How bad?” Chris ran one hand raggedly through his hair, his voice a rasping whisper.

Josiah paused. “Broken collarbone, busted ribs. Hurt leg.”

Chris swallowed, hard. “What else?”

Josiah sighed. “He got - slammed into that wall pretty hard. He - “

“No!” Chris cried suddenly, shooting off the pew and standing in front of Josiah, both hands in his blond hair. “No, it wasn’t him! It wasn’t, it was the Warden I threw into the wall. I remember, it was...and it wasn’t JD, it was Fowler, it was his man, it was...oh, God!” Chris sobbed, falling back into the pew and once more burying his head in his hands. After a long moment he shook his head and said, “It was JD. It was and I was so drunk I didn’t know.”

“We figured on that, Chris,” Josiah said quietly.

The thunder rumbled outside, thick and ominous. Chris sat there for a few minutes, his heavy breathing the only sound in the little church. Finally he brought his head up and asked, “They looking for me?”

“Some are.” Josiah answered. “They want to hang you. We wired the judge.”

Chris sighed hugely. “Everybody want me dead?”

“No,” Josiah said comfortingly, and paused, a long pause. “You’ve got to go, Chris.”

The wind blew out a few more candles, made it a little darker. Chris turned to face Josiah, his blue eyes pained and hopeless. “What?”

“We talked it over.” Josiah leaned close. “We can buy you some time, till the judge gets here.”

Chris thought about it, shook his head. “I ain’t gonna run.”

“You’re not runnin’,” Josiah said firmly. “But you stay here and you’re a dead man.”

More thunder. Chris sat silhouetted in the dim candlelight of the church, lank blond locks falling over his creased forehead as he sat motionless, his creased face bleak with despair and guilt and fathomless grief.

Josiah regarded the sight sadly, and said, “Chris Larabee, your demons are Legion.”

Chris looked at him, squinted in the glowing light.

“And you need to get rid of them before you kill someone.”

Chris shifted in the pew, shook his head. “I can’t go. Not until I know.”

“Don’t worry about the boy,” Josiah advised. “He’s got every soul in this town pulling for him.”

“And when he wakes up,” Chris said, in the most miserable, godforsaken tones Josiah had ever heard, “he’ll hate me for the rest of his life.”

Josiah had no answer for that, simply said, “You’d best go now, while the rain can hide you. Judge’ll be here in five days. That’s when we need you back. After that, we come lookin’, and you won’t want us to find you if it comes to that.”

“It won’t,” Chris said resolutely, and stood up. He slicked his hair back, looked around the church. “Where should I go?”

Josiah thought a moment. “Go among the tombs and the mountains, Chris. Go where someone who can help can find you.”

Chris’s shoulders sagged, and Josiah thought he’d never seen Chris look so defeated. After a pause he shook his head and said, “Josiah?”

The preacher faced his friend, sympathy and pity in his blue eyes.

“I can’t make up for what I done,” Chris said in a voice that had none of its usual hard edge, only a bottomless unhappiness, deep and wide. “But if something happens and I don’t make it back...”

Chris paused then, bit his lip, and when he looked back up at Josiah the preacher saw tears in those tortured eyes, and Chris Larabee choked back a sob. “God, Josiah. Tell ‘em I wish to Hell I’d died three years ago.”

A roll of thunder, the rain came harder still. Chris quietly left the church, and before he followed him Josiah paused, and lit two more candles on the altar. Then he extinguished the others and walked out, leaving the two struggling candles to glow together in the gathering darkness.

  
  


**...darkness.

Soft, endless darkness, floating quietly, thinking of nothing.

Some memories, good ones, bad ones, sudden, sharp pain, then a detached wispiness, as if nothing much mattered anymore.

Voices.

Coming close, moving away, hands helping, lifting, hurts but passes, something cool, silence.

Waiting.

Someone near, hovering, maybe waiting too? Don’t want to go, only starting, something wraps around, comforting and warming, love and protection, the pain eases, goes away, nestling down now, stay here forever.

...mama?... **

  
  


  
  



	4. Chapter 4

The dawning sun glowed on Chris’ back as he rode his horse down the meandering desert path. They were out in the middle of nowhere, and Chris hardly looked where he was going, or even lifted his head from staring at the back of his horse’s neck. He should have been marking the trail, searching for landmarks to guide his way homeward when the time came and he had to go back.

But he didn’t. Because he wasn’t planning on going back.

_You run and I’ll hunt you down._

I’m not running, Buck, Chris argued with the man who until three years ago was his only really close friend. Chris had been talking to Buck all morning, reasoning things out. Buck’s voice had answered every argument he made, pleading and yelling in the way Chris knew Buck to do such things, but all to no avail. Chris’ mind was made up.

I’m not running, he repeated, imagining Buck riding next to him, that oh-come-on-Chris look in his eyes. Running is something you do when you can’t face something, when you’re yellow and you give up trying to right things. This was just the opposite.

Chris knew he should never go back to Four Corners. It was the right thing to do.

And how’s that, Chris?

The blond man lifted his head, gazed into the brilliant desert landscape till it hurt his eyes, and they welled up. He felt desolate, empty, used up. He knew Buck didn’t understand, none of them did, but up till now that had been all right, Chris was used to people not understanding, it didn’t hurt anybody that he kept to himself and backed away and still dreamed of Sarah and Adam, her soft skin, those little-boy eyes. It was Chris’ own screwed-up existence, and if he became jagged and dangerous, nobody paid for it but him.

Then, in one night, everybody paid.

No, he couldn’t go back. He tried living, it didn’t work. He tried holding the pain, the guilt, the anger, but they were like snakes, coiling around him and choking him, and he couldn’t hold them anymore.

So he would let them go.

Now dang it, Chris, he heard Buck exclaim, that’s just plain old crazy. Now what would Sarah say if she heard you talkin’ like that? You’d scare the living daylights out of her.

But Sarah couldn’t hear. Sarah was beyond pain, beyond the burden of the world. She and Adam were somewhere else, Heaven Chris hoped, forever young and light and unaware. She was dead, and knew nothing.

And Chris was so jealous he wanted to scream.

A ramshackle roadside inn appeared in the distance, little more than an adobe hovel thrown up beside the dirt road. Chris’ insides clamored for a drink. He ignored that killing thirst, knew that if he picked up the bottle again he would drink himself to death, and Chris did not want to die that way. But his horse was thirsty, so Chris decided to stop.

If the inn seemed ramshackle from a distance, it was worse up close. A grimy, weed-choked building, two stories tall, with rags fluttering in the window and goats and chickens wandering the dirty courtyard. Chris rode his horse over to the trough, where flies gathered in buzzing clusters, dismounted and tethered the animal. There was a grimy wooden table nearby, under a lattice work arbor that sported one withered vine. Chris went over and sat down at it, and stared at nothing.

It was quiet out in the wilderness. The chickens squawked, the wind blew, rattling the dead leaves on the vine above him. After a moment the fat innkeeper appeared, and eyed Chris warily. Chris smiled to himself. _Guess you can’t be too careful these days._

The innkeeper was carrying a bottle of whiskey, and without even asking set it down in front of Chris and walked away.

For a long moment, Chris stared at the bottle. He didn’t really remember the drunken binge that had ended with JD lying beaten in the alley; he did have hazy images of the saloon, lamplight glowing off of empty bottles. Then a red darkness.

He didn’t touch the bottle. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his duster and took something out, stared at it, turned it over in his black-gloved hands.

His wedding ring.

Chris had kept it, why he didn’t know. Maybe because it was the only thing of value he had, and maybe he could buy something with it someday; maybe he was sentimental. All he knew was that when he looked at it, he could ignore the whiskey bottle.

He was still holding the golden band, turning it over and over, when he heard a soft voice at his elbow and looked up. A young girl stood there, maybe fifteen, with dark skin and long, black hair. Her huge dark eyes looked at Chris, and he saw too much knowledge there, tired circles under the eyes of a girl of fifteen. Without a word, she reached out one small, soft hand and put it on his arm.

In halting English accented with Mexico she asked, “Sir, would you like to go to bed with me?”

Oh, Christ. Chris’ heart sank within him, as if the world wasn’t kicking him enough. He glanced back at the innkeeper, saw the expectant look in his eyes. That bastard, selling this girl for money. She was probably his daughter, and he was prostituting her. Jesus Christ.

The girl blinked at him, and Chris almost shrank back. Part of him wanted to pummel the innkeeper, rage against him for using this child to satisfy lecherous travelers. Hadn’t he avenged such wrongs before? Didn’t he used to be the sort of man who would rail against the injustice of shattered innocence?

Yes. But now he’d shattered some of his own. JD’s blood was still on his hands, and Chris was exhausted and tired of fighting. He shook his head at the girl and looked back down at the ring, and didn’t move when her hand slipped away.

His horse was done drinking, but Chris still sat at the table, mesmerized by that ring. Go into the tombs and the mountains, Josiah had said. Go where someone can find you who can help you. But Chris knew he was beyond help. At the end of it all, he’d fought for three years to live, only to be shown that the demons Josiah had mentioned were going to win. The tombs and the mountains. Well, a tomb seemed like a fine idea...

The sound of another horseman approaching reached Chris’ ears. He didn’t look up.

“Good afternoon to you, sir. Might you have some clean water to drink?”

An Irish lilt. Chris looked up.

A man was getting off a handsome horse, a tall man with broad shoulders and short, curly brown hair. His clothes were dusty, but a fine cut, and as he shook the trail dust out of his hair Chris saw that despite the heat and the long ride he still had a lot of energy. A lot of that energy went into the appreciative smile he gave the innkeeper, who handed him a tumbler of water and gave him a puzzled look.

“Oh, lovely,” The newcomer said gratefully, handing the innkeeper a coin with one gloved hand, “Just perfect. Thank you.”

The man wandered into the arbor, settled into a nearby table with a groan and a stretching of his legs. He gave Chris a friendly smile, which Chris scowled off. This man was obviously happy, and Chris hated him. And went back to gazing at his wedding ring.

A few minutes passed. Chris risked a glance at the whiskey, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. His demons might kill him, and save him the trouble.

From a few feet away, a soft voice said, “Sir, would you like to go to bed with me?”

Chris grimaced. Rotten world -

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” He heard the Irishman exclaim, and Chris looked up to see the man taking the girl’s hands in his own, with a look of absolute shock on his face. The girl stared back, frightened, and the man moved one hand to touch her face, said something to her in a voice too low for Chris to hear, but his expression was one of clear anguish. The girl nodded, and Chris saw the man’s expression change to one he’d seen before, on Nathan’s face and Josiah’s, and the others.

Righteous anger.

The man stood up, still held the girl’s hand, and Chris watched him lead the girl to where the innkeeper was standing puzzled at the door. Chris saw the innkeeper cower a little bit, and continued to watch, intrigued.

“Ye black-hearted wretch,” the Irishman said hotly. “Ye’ve been selling this poor girl t’ pay for yer whiskey.”

It was a statement, not a question, and Chris saw the innkeeper shrug. “She doesn’t mind it, señor. Her mother didn’t either. I’m a poor man, how do you - ”

“Ye worthless pig!” The Irishman seethed, putting an arm around the girl’s shoulder and sheltering her at his side. “Ye’d barter away a child’s innocence to cover yer debts. A mongrel dog would be ashamed to look ye in the face.”

The innkeeper was squaring his shoulders now, spoiling for a fight. “You have a problem with the way I run my inn? Then get out.”

“What do ye charge for her?” The Irishman suddenly asked.

The innkeeper blinked at him. “Pardon, señor?”

“Ye heard me, you miserable excuse for the lowest form of a human bein’. What do you charge for her - time?”

The man grinned. “She’s a good girl, señor. Very talented. Fifty cents.”

The Irishman let out a wordless growl, and as Chris watched he let go of the girl and plunged one hand into the pocket of his suit. He dug out a huge roll of bills, larger even than Ezra’s, whipped off four bills, and thrust them into the innkeeper’s chest angrily.

“That should keep her safe from the next five hundred or so pairs of filthy hands,” the Irishman said sternly, and Chris could feel the heat of his glare as he stuffed the money back in his pocket. “You’re the poorest excuse for a father God ever put on this earth. I’ll be back in a week, and if you let one predatory hand touch this child in the meantime I’ll break your miserable neck. Am I understood?”

The innkeeper was staring at the money; he looked confused, but overjoyed at all that cash. He nodded assent, but didn’t look at the other man.

The Irishman noticed this, and leaning forward he gripped the man’s collar in one strong fist, pulling his face close. The innkeeper squeaked; Chris heard it.

“Ye low-down pimping son of a bitch,” the Irishman snarled threateningly. “It would be God’s work I’d be doin’ to rid the world of ye right here, but there’s a chance even yer sorry soul can be saved, so I’ll let it go. But if one hair - one **half** of one hair - is disturbed on this girl’s head when I get back, ye’ll be spendin’ some long, long hours wishin’ yer life had been a lot shorter.”

The Irishman let go of the man, practically threw him back into the doorway, then, in a lightning flash, his face went to gentle softness and he knelt down to the young girl, took her sad face in his hands, and gave her a look of such sympathy that Chris almost heard the man’s heart breaking. He said something else to her, soft and low, then gave her a gentle hug and, throwing one last murderous look to the innkeeper, walked back toward his horse.

Chris sat up, impressed despite his melancholy. As the other man passed him, Chris nodded. The Irishman nodded back, gave him a half-smile, his eyes darting for a moment to Chris’ hands, something flashing through his eyes that Chris didn’t quite catch. Then he mounted his horse and rode away.

Chris sat there for a few more minutes, then rose to go. He walked across the dilapidated plaza, saw the innkeeper still standing in the doorway, fondling the crisp bills in his chubby hands. The girl was standing a few feet in front of him, her sorrowful dark eyes on the road where the Irishman had departed. There was wonder in her eyes, and a kind of surprise, as if she knew something wonderful had happened to her, but her mind couldn’t understand it. She had been saved.

Chris looked into those huge black eyes, felt a pang of guilt, brushed it aside. He’d tried saving the world. And failed. Let it go.

With one last look at the miserable little inn, Chris mounted his horse and headed out into the desert, looking for the mountains. And the tombs.

  
  


_drifting._

Floating, quiet, calm and gentle, in no hurry. Plenty of time.

Moving...

Edging closer to the surface, light and voices, they’re worried about me, awful pain, wait, something’s wrong, pulling back, no, stay here.

Someone...

Stroking, soothing. It’s all right. Tenderness and concern. Drawing close. It’s been long enough now.

It’s time.

Something’s pulling, getting stronger, but it hurts, hurts, it isn’t right, clinging, frightened. Please don’t make me.

I’m right here.

Spinning, falling, faster, faster, rushing, noises, louder, brighter, getting heavy, can’t believe the pain, not where I’m supposed to be , don’t let go, please please, I won’t I won’t holding gripping tighter tighter tighter tighter -

_waking_ -

  
  


The early morning sun glowed weakly against the drawn shades in Nathan’s room, casting bright halos around the dark squares of canvas pulled down to keep the room cool, and dim. Cheerful sunlight would be incongruous in that room today. Buck didn’t want it, had no use for it now that his world was night; wouldn’t need again until the wrecked youth who lay motionless in the narrow bed before him opened his eyes, until the youth’s attacker had paid for what he’d done. Until those things happened, Buck didn’t care if he never saw the sun again.

_Come on, JD._ Buck’s blue eyes fell once again on the sleeping youth who had been occupying Nathan’s bed for a whole day now. Open your eyes, I know you’re in there. Move, dammit, say something. Anything...

Buck tried not to think about the way JD had looked when they’d first brought him in - his face swollen, his arms and legs limp as a doll’s, his long black hair matted brown and crusted with drying blood. Buck had been scared then.

He was petrified now.

He hadn’t thought it was possible to feel worse than he had when they’d first found JD crumpled and bleeding in the alley by the jail. But yesterday everything changed. Before Buck had seen Chris, JD’s attacker was a rotten son of a bitch, a low down cuss Buck couldn’t wait to get his hands on, a satisfying target for all the rage and distress Buck had felt on seeing his young friend thrown around like a child’s toy. Before yesterday, JD’s assailant was dead meat.

Now, he was Buck’s best friend.

It just didn’t seem possible. Buck watched the soft lamplight glow on JD’s pale, battered face. Chris did this. Chris, Buck’s buddy, his drinkin’ companion, defender of women and children. It didn’t seem to fit.

Then Buck sighed and drew one graceful hand through his dark hair. Yes, it fit. He’d fought it, fought the idea with every ounce of his strength, denied it till he ached from the effort.

But he knew Chris could do it. Because he had done it to Buck.

Oh, not this bad, Buck winced as his eyes fell reluctantly on JD’s bandaged ribs, the ominous row of black stitches over his left temple, the red-blue bruises that blotted the fair skin on his forehead, his jaw, next to his left eye. Not this bad, but there was a night, not too long after they’d laid Chris’ wife and son in the ground...

Too much whiskey. Shouted words. Fists bashing into flesh.

And then what? Buck tried to remember. He’d been sore as hell, found out he’d bruised a couple of ribs, tried to explain it away to the curious senorita who’d found him among the trash the next morning. Just a little disagreement, darlin’. Ouch, I’m all right.

God damn, Buck thought as he recalled that night. God damn.

He didn’t think Chris even apologized for beating him; at least, he didn’t remember that he had. Only a few mumbled words over more whiskey the next day. That night Chris was gone, and Buck didn’t see him again for a long time.

But that was so long ago. Three years. In that time Buck had forgiven Chris, of course, told himself it was the booze, Chris wasn’t really like that, he’d just gotten a little carried away. And maybe it was true, but Buck knew when he hooked up with Chris again that things could change again, for the worse. Chris Larabee, Buck’s good buddy, had been replaced by Chris Larabee, hair-trigger maniac, and Buck had learned to walk the fine line that would ensure he landed on the one side, and not the other. And he simply ignored the maniac, and hoped he’d go away.

But he hadn’t. He’d made appearances now and then, wearing Chris’ face, and Buck always hated it when that happened, because he didn’t like this new person in Chris’ body, who frowned and growled and took swings at people. And then blamed them for not ducking fast enough.

And then Buck had found JD’s twisted, beaten body in a dark alley, and Chris sleeping off a drinking binge with blood on his knuckles...

Buck took a deep breath and let it out, slow and sad. He wanted Chris to pay for what he did. He wanted the old Chris back, so they could talk about this and remark on how it would never happen again. He wanted to wake up next to Rita, and this all to be a bad dream.

He wanted JD to open his eyes.

The door creaked softly, and Buck looked up to see Nathan come in. The healer entered the room with a covered plate, and as he came in he nodded to Buck, his face reflecting haggard concern in the amber light.

“Anything yet?” Nathan whispered hopefully as he moved to where Buck was sitting.

Buck glanced at JD, then at Nathan, shook his head.

Nathan pursed his lips, poised the plate at Buck. “Here, I got us some biscuits.”

Buck had no appetite, but took the plate anyway. “Where’d you get these?”

“Mrs. Travis.” Nathan quietly moved around the bed as he spoke.

Buck put the plate down, didn’t touch the food.

Nathan put one practiced hand on JD’s bruised forehead. “She looked pretty wore out. Don’t think anybody got much sleep last night.”

Buck nodded agreement, watched as Nathan gently examined the stitches, then sat down in the chair on the other side of the bed. “You see anybody else?”

Nathan picked a clean rag from the table, dipped it in a basin of water nearby. “Few townfolk. They asked about JD.”

Buck nodded again, felt the oppressiveness of the night, fought it. Nathan sponged the boy’s face with the cool water, dipped it again. Buck watched in mortified fascination, wondering how anyone so unaware could still be alive.

There was a knock on the door, so low it could hardly be heard, and Buck went to answer it, realizing as he rose just how sore and stiff he was from sitting. How long had he been in that chair? A year? Two? He didn’t recall.

He opened the door, saw Vin standing there, his head ducked low. The former bounty hunter hung in the doorway, his face sadder and more serious than Buck had ever seen it.

“Thought you oughta know,” Vin drawled in a slow, monotonous tone, “Chris left town last night.”

Buck and Nathan looked at each other, then back at Vin. Buck asked, “Who went with him?”

“Josiah saw him out to Baker’s Pass,” Vin replied, still in the shadows. “Then Chris went on by himself.”

Buck nodded, didn’t know what to say. Chris was gone.

Nathan left JD’s bedside and approached the door. Vin backed up, and the two others walked out onto the wide wooden porch that fronted Nathan’s room.

The rain from last night had left a humid, heavy mist behind, and Buck felt it deepen his weighted mood. It was Vin who spoke first.

“People around here are mighty riled,” he said simply, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “It ain’t gonna go easy on us till this thing is settled.”

“How long till Chris comes back?” Buck asked.

“Josiah gave him five days,” Vin answered, his voice noncommittal. “Till the judge gets here.”

“And after that, then what?” Nathan said. “Even if Chris comes back, ain’t no way folks round here gonna trust him again.”

“He’ll come back,” Buck said in tight tones.

“Well, till he does,” Vin posited, “we best lay low. Some folks never took too kind to us before, this just made things worse.”

Buck shook his head in despair and put his hands on his hips. The whole thing was just too depressing to think about. He cast his eyes to the drifting clouds overhead and sighed.

Buck looked down from the blue-pink sky to see Vin eyeing him. Shifting his weight, the tracker said, “You look like hell, Buck. You get any sleep?”

Buck scratched at the day’s growth of beard on his chin, shrugged tiredly. “I’ve gone longer.”

Vin gave him a sympathetic look. “I can sit up a spell. You get some - ”

_CRASH!_

Buck jumped at the loud noise that rang from Nathan’s room. He jumped through the door before even thinking about it, and gaped at the sight that met his eyes.

JD was out of the bed, fully awake and sprawled on the floor, the bedclothes tangled around his bandaged legs. He was bracing himself against the front of Nathan’s desk and looking around with wide, frightened eyes.

Buck couldn’t believe it. “Hey, buddy!” he said happily as Nathan and Vin piled in behind him. He extricated himself from the crowd near the door and started toward his friend to help him up, overjoyed that JD was finally out of danger, and things could go back to normal. “Good to have you - ”

JD looked at Buck and screamed.

Buck stopped, his hands frozen in front of him. JD was glancing around frantically, like a caged animal, scrambling to cram his injured body into the small space beneath Nathan’s desk. His face, so still and quiet minutes before, was flushed and panicked.

“Hey, JD.” Buck laughed nervously, not understanding, “It’s okay, just calm - ”

He took a half-step closer, and JD yelled out again, trying his best to move away from Buck with his one good arm. He stared at Buck, at all of them, in total shock, his huge hazel eyes almost bulging with hysteria.

“Hold on there, Buck,” Nathan said softly, and moved around Buck, crouching down a fair distance from JD, but close enough to talk to him.

JD let out a small whimper and tried to push himself farther beneath the desk, his eyes fixed on Nathan.

“Now son - can you understand me?”

JD nodded, a quick, small nod followed by a huge wince, as if the effort hurt.

“You know where you’re at?”

The youth glanced around quickly, shook his head no.

“You know your name?”

JD opened his mouth, hesitated. “I - I’m John-Daniel.”

Nathan smiled as gently as he could. “That’s right, son, that’s good.”

“What happened to me?” JD asked, his words choked and shaky, tears springing in his eyes as he tried to hide farther under the desk. With one trembling hand he fumbled at the bandage that bound his left arm. “Who are you people? Where’s my mother?”

Nathan sat back a little. Vin and Buck traded looks, but Buck’s was darker.

“Your mother ain’t here right now,” Nathan said softly. “But we - ”

“You’re a liar!” JD cried in a raw voice, one tear slipping down his cheek, “She was just with me! She was right here!”

Nathan paused. JD eyed them all with agonized, glazed eyes, then hunched over and started sobbing, hoarse, racking, hopeless sobs of pain and bewilderment.

Buck couldn’t stand it anymore. He leaned forward a bit. “Now, just take it easy, so - ”

“Get away from me!” JD shrieked through his tears, shrinking back into the darkness. He thrust his good hand into his hair, over where the stitches were, and sobbed louder. Then, twisting his eyes shut, JD turned his face away, and as he pulled himself tighter Buck could see how badly he was shaking in that small space.

For a few minutes there was no sound in the dimly lit room other than JD’s hitching, ragged breath. Vin shook his head and ducked it low, and as Buck glanced over at him he saw the bounty hunter’s shoulders sagging. The knot which had been creeping up Buck’s spine since the previous morning finally reached his heart, and strangled it. He felt like dying.

Nathan paused, crept a little closer to where JD was cowering. “You hurtin’, John-Daniel?”

The boy kept crying, seemingly oblivious to Vin and Buck and Nathan.

Nathan leaned back and whispered, “You two better leave.”

“No,” Buck said automatically, his face slack with amazement as he looked at the slight form trembling in terror underneath Nathan’s desk. Leave? Impossible.

“Buck,” Vin said in a calm voice that was nonetheless weighted with sorrow, “We’re scarin’ the kid. Let’s let Nathan handle this.”

Buck hesitated, squinted at Nathan, felt helpless. Finally, reluctantly, he walked with Vin to the door, pausing before he closed it to listen to Nathan’s soothing words, heard low-toned responses punctuated by confused, racking sobs.

His eyes met Vin’s, and for the first time since the events of the night before last he knew they agreed. No matter what the clock said, the night wasn’t over.

It was just getting started. And the sun might never come up again.

  
  


Nathan waited until he heard the soft thud of the door closing behind Vin and Buck, then turned his attention back to the quavering youth who was cringing beneath his desk. JD’s sobs had quieted to soft whimpers, punctuated by an occasional hitching gulp. His face was still turned away from Nathan, his right hand buried in his long black hair.

“John-Daniel?” Nathan said quietly.

JD didn’t answer, didn’t move except to rock back and forth, hugging his knees to his chest.

Nathan licked his lips, tried again. “John-Daniel? You want somethin’ for the pain?”

Slowly the hand came out of the hair, and JD turned to look at him. His face was red from crying, the vermilion blending with the dark blue and stark red of his bruises and cuts. He blinked at Nathan, his hazel eyes huge with alarm and amazement.

“You’re a d-doctor?” JD finally whispered huskily.

“No,” Nathan admitted with a gentle smile, “but I does know somethin’ about healin’ folks.”

The frightened eyes darted back and forth, around Nathan it seemed. “Where’s Doctor Bingham?”

Nathan paused, and in that pause JD looked at him and asked, “Where’s my mother?”

It was a childlike voice he was using, higher and more plaintive than Nathan had ever heard before. Nathan thought for a moment and said, “Don’t you want to come out from under there, son? It don’t look too comfortable to me.”

JD looked around the cramped space he was in, as if he’d just noticed he was in it. He started to scoot forward, but caught himself, giving Nathan a suddenly suspicious look. “You didn’t hurt my mother?”

Nathan’s head came back. “No, son, of course not. I wanna help you.”

“Then where is she? I’ve seen men like you down at the coal docks. She wouldn’t leave me alone with you.”

The tone was getting tighter, and more frightened. JD seemed to be having second thoughts about leaving his hiding place; he began pushing himself back into it, eyeing Nathan warily as he did so.

Nathan shook his head, decided to try again. “Now son, listen to me. You been hurt, and your mama - asked me to take care of you.”

JD frowned; he wasn’t buying it.

“Now, listen,” Nathan thought fast, “I know you’re scared, and I bet you’re hurtin’ mighty bad. That other doctor, he couldn’t make it, so your mama sent for me.”

JD was blinking back tears of confusion and fear. “But I don’t know you,” he whispered in terrified self-defense.

“I know,” Nathan continued. “And she knew that too, she told me, ‘When JD wakes up he’s gonna be mighty sore.”

JD’s eyes widened.

Nathan smiled a bit; he’d been right. “‘So you make sure to give him somethin’ for the pain till I get back.’ Now your mama calls you JD, don’t she?”

JD nodded a little, the wayward bangs falling into those frightened eyes. “Nobody else does. Just her.”

Nathan’s smile grew gentler. “Now I could tell she’d be like to take my head off if I didn’t do just what she said, so you want to help me? Come on out of there, please?”

JD paused, his eyes still unsure, but Nathan could see that pain and exhaustion were winning over suspicion and after a moment JD began to slowly work his way out from under the desk.

“You want some help?” he asked, reaching out a hand.

JD flinched away from Nathan, his eyes suddenly huge again, and frantically shook his head.

He’s still scared of me, Nathan thought sadly. He backed away from the desk and stood up, walking over the the table that housed his herbs and tonics.

He mixed some of them together, came back with the glass to see that JD had managed to get about halfway out of the desk space. He had stopped to rest, and was leaning against the inside wall panting, his face shining with sweat.

“Here, son, drink this,” Nathan encouraged, handing JD the herbal mixture. “It’ll take away some of the pain, help get you back to sleep.”

JD took the glass cautiously and sniffed at it, then took a sip.

“After you get that down,” Nathan said, “we’ll get you the rest of the way out of there and back into bed.”

And maybe the next time you wake up, you’ll know who we are again.

JD drank the rest of the medicine, handed the cup back, winced and began pulling himself out of the hole again.

“Easy there,” Nathan directed, putting the glass on the desk and reaching down for JD’s good arm to help him. As soon as the youth had cleared the tiny space, Nathan gave a gentle tug and helped JD to his feet, and started to walk him back to the bed.

Immediately JD stumbled, and fell against the desk, crying out in pain.

Alarmed, Nathan hastily lowered him to the floor, leaning him against the desk’s wooden legs so he could see if JD had hurt himself further. The boy had closed his eyes tightly, and seemed to be trying not to cry.

“It’s okay, JD,” he soothed, trying to quell his own panic. “Is it your leg? Hurts to walk on it?”

JD shook his head, his eyes still shut, his breaths coming in huge, noisy gasps.

“You gettin’ any new pain when you hit the desk? Like in your ribs?”

The gasps settled somewhat. JD opened his eyes and tried to focus them on Nathan, and shook his head again, black hair falling against dark bruises. “N-no.”

Nathan sighed. That was something, at least. “Well, we gotta get you back into bed. Wanna try it again?”

There was real fear in JD’s eyes, not the fear from before, but something else Nathan didn’t recognize. But JD seemed to want to try again, and did his best to help Nathan lift him to his feet.

“All right?” Nathan asked as JD tottered uncertainly. The bed was only two feet away, but there was something in JD’s attitude that -

Suddenly JD leaned far forward, and fell down again, this time bouncing against the edge of the bed before Nathan caught him around the middle, and settled him against the side of the bed.

JD was shaking from head to toe, in pain and terror that had him staring at Nathan with gigantic, stupefied eyes.

Nathan was alarmed too, but tried not to show it. Running expert hands over JD’s shoulders, he said, “You hurt? Any - ”

“What’s the matter with me?” JD blurted in a voice that trembled with petrified fright. “I can’t walk. I can’t - ”

“Now, calm down,” Nathan said quickly, putting one dark hand on JD’s face and praying that the tonic would take hold soon. “Please, JD? Stay with me here, son.”

“I - tried and I just fell down!” Tears ran down JD’s face as he began to shake harder. “I can’t walk anymore? Is - is that - ”

Nathan kept his hand on JD’s face, began to gently stroke it in the hopes of calming the youth down. His other hand was on JD’s good shoulder, and he kept it there. “JD? JD, just take some deep breaths with me, all right?”

JD looked at him, frenzied eyes in an ash-white face. He tried to breathe.

“It hurts,” he said in a small voice.

“I know, son, and I’m sorry about that. Just breathe, deep as you can.”

JD nodded, tried. One breath, shaky but deep. Two. The eyes were a little calmer, he was locking them on Nathan’s.

“All right now,” Nathan said in quiet, measured tones. “You been hurt. It’s bad, but you just relax and we’re gonna help you. All the help you need, you hear me?”

JD nodded, but the eyes.. “Why can’t I walk? It’s like...”

“Don’t worry about that, it’ll - it’ll come back. You just need time is all. Now I’ll get you back in the bed, and you get some rest and don’t be movin’ around. Hear me?”

JD was spent, exhausted. The tonic was also affecting him. He nodded, and closing his eyes rested against the bed, his breath coming slower now. But his face was full of pain.

Nathan tried hard not to show it, but he was going cold inside. Absolutely stone cold. His eyes involuntarily went to the bandaged legs, lying useless in front of JD, still covered in cotton underdrawers splotched with old brown blood; they were white a lifetime ago. Back when JD knew where he was and who his friends were, back when Chris was JD’s hero and they were all still together.

And now JD was afraid of them, in awful pain, and he couldn’t walk.

JD was shivering less now, his shoulders sagging with fatigue and surrender. With a heart heavy with the dread of tomorrow, Nathan stood up and without any protest from JD lifted him up and placed him carefully back into the small, narrow bed.

  
  


Mary Travis finished running off the last of the newspapers, carefully folded them and by ten o’clock was out on the street.

She looked like hell, and she knew it. The previous twenty-four hours were still tangled in her half-combed hair that had been shoved into a rough bun at eight-thirty; they were visible in the dark circles underneath her eyes; she hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep. And they were easily discernible in her pallid, worried face, a face that tried to look cheerful, or at least professional, for the town’s sake. She knew as she smoothed out her dress and picked up her stack of papers that they were all looking to her for guidance until her father-in-law, Orin Travis, arrived. They were counting on her, and she had to come through. Even though she really just wanted to run and hide.

She stood on the sidewalk for a moment in the chill early morning sunshine and glanced at the headline on the front page: SHERIFF ASSAULTED, TOWN IN CONFUSION. She bit her lip, thought of Chris. She’d tried to be as factual as she could, had written and rewritten the article a hundred times, and still it came down to the same awful, irrefutable, damnable conclusion:

Chris Larabee was responsible for JD Dunne’s injuries. And he was gone.

Her mind went back to the previous evening, her talk with Ezra Standish. Best if Chris goes away until the judge arrives, Ezra had said, but there was no concern for Chris in that lazy Southern drawl, only a barely contained rage, and Mary knew that if Chris had shown up in that office, at that moment, Ezra would have killed him.

But Chris hadn’t come to her. She had hoped he would, he owed her that much. After all, his act was a betrayal to her faith in him, a slap in the face to the standard Orin was holding Chris to. Chris had to know, wherever he was, that the town would never forgive him for being so - so violent, when it had trusted him to keep his head. So she deserved an explanation, or at the very least an apology.

But no - what she really wanted was for Chris to come and beg her forgiveness, to say he was sorry, to look at her the way he had once when she’d been kidnapped by a savage pimp named Wickes and held as bait in his tent. She’d been terrified, helpless, and Chris had come to her rescue, his normally taut, blank face aching with concern as he leaned close to her to untie her wrists and ask, are you all right?

His eyes were sky blue and deep as the open sea...

Mary blinked, came back to herself. That was the only time she’d ever seen Chris so anxious, so caring, so sorry for what was happening. Then it had closed over, and maybe she’d never see it again. Or him.

“Mrs. Travis!”

She turned around to see Mr. Conklin striding toward her on the sidewalk.

Oh, Lord. She smiled tightly. “Good morning, Mr. Conklin. Newspaper?”

“What? Oh - ” Mr. Conklin blinked at the paper Mary was holding out to him, took it noncommittally and immediately shoved it under one arm, not folded but in a bunch. Then he looked at Mary through his oval spectacles and hissed, “Did you hear?”

“Hear what?” Mary began to walk into the street, passing out papers to whoever held out a hand for one.

“Larabee’s run off!” Mr. Conklin said triumphantly. “His gang helped him escape. You wire the judge?”

So Chris was really gone... another newspaper handed out. “Yes, Mr. Conklin. He’ll be here just as soon as he - ”

“Well, he’d better come right quick,” Mr. Conklin bleated, looking around fearfully. “I wouldn’t give two cents for what this town’s going to turn into once those bushwhackers ride out of town.”

A hand held out, here you go. “Mr. Conklin, I spoke to one of Mr. Larabee’s men last night. They’re not going anywhere.”

“Unless we run ‘em out on a rail!” Mr. Conklin spat, trotting next to Mary like an anxious terrier. “The rest of that bunch is no better than Larabee. When the outlaws start comin’ back, they’ll probably hold the door open!”

Mary rolled her eyes, then tried to ignore Mr. Conklin and peered down the street. She could see Vin Tanner walking down the street some distance ahead of them, his pale coat with its unique shoulder flaps making him easily discernible. He was walking with Josiah, slowly, and they were talking, their heads down and together, as if the discussion were serious and private. She wondered what they were talking about.

“Well?”

Conklin had said something. Sighing in exasperation, Mary turned his way. “I’m sorry, Mr. Conklin, what were you saying?”

Conklin blinked, scowled, looked down the street and scowled deeper. Wagging his finger at her he said, “Now you just watch yourself around those men, Mrs. Travis. You’re too fine a lady to get hypnotized with their smooth talk, and they’ll go after you first. They already got the judge fooled - ”

The load of newspapers in Mary’s hands was becoming very heavy; shifting it to one arm she said, “Yes, Mr. Conklin, thank you for your concern. I’ll be very careful.”

Conklin’s scowl turned insulted. “You didn’t hear what I said, did you?”

Mary’s eyes fluttered. Yes?

Conklin let out a disgusted snort and said slowly, “You tell the judge. If Mr. Dunne don’t make it, we’re gonna need some law around here. Some *real* law. Now, I don’t have no experience, but I know how to hold a gun - ”

Mary stopped walking; she was shocked. “You, Mr. Conklin? You want to be sheriff?”

“Don’t want to be - have to be!” Conklin insisted. “Somebody’s got to keep these roughnecks from tearing up our town!”

Mary tried to hide a smile as she walked the street with her papers. Tried, but failed. “Well, I doubt it will come to that. Things have been pretty quiet here - ”

Conklin stopped, a smug grin on his hangdog face. “Oh, you don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“The hotel was robbed last night!”

It was said in the most annoying I-told-you-so voice, and if Mary had had her hands free she thought she would have slapped him. But her hands were occupied, so she just let her mouth drop open. “Really?”

Conklin nodded firmly. “And it’s only the beginning! It’s worse than before, Mrs. Travis. And it’s not going to get any better.”

Mary nodded, hoping he was wrong. Vin and Josiah were still walking, and as she watched she saw Buck come out of the saloon. He looked ragged and unkempt, as if he’d slept in his clothes. Even from this distance she could see he still hadn’t shaved. She watched him walk up to the other two men, no lively Buck spring in his step, none of the jaunty hey-how-you-doing that she’d come to associate with the affable gunslinger. Instead, there were drooping shoulders, worried fiddling with his moustache, a quiet nod in greeting. She saw Josiah put his hand on Buck’s shoulder, and her heart went out to him. JD was like Buck’s little brother; what would Buck do if he died?

“Hmph.” She heard next to her, and turned to see Conklin eyeing the three men ahead of them as one would a drunken man in a gutter. His loathing was almost palpable.

And suddenly Mary knew she had to get away from it. Turning to the other man she said, “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Conklin.” and walked away from him as fast as she could, not caring how it looked, because she felt like she was suffocating.

Conklin watched her go, toward those men, and shook his head in disgust. He wanted them gone, and he wasn’t alone.

All he needed was time.

  
  


The saloon was lively, for the middle of the morning. The place was full of travelers, working girls, and bar patrons, and it was noisy and bright with the activity of the day. Bets were made; deals were exchanged; money was passed; and everybody seemed to be having a great time, and many of them were too drunk to even realize it.

And in the middle of this whirlpool of colorful mayhem, four businessmen were playing poker and smiling to themselves.

“I can’t believe we got away with it,” Tims said in a low whisper to Durning as they leaned toward each other.

Durning grinned back, and winked. “It was fun, wasn’t it?”

Sherson seemed the most smug of them all; he could barely hide his excitement as his eyes scanned the other people in the bar.

“Look at these hicks,” he said in his low bass voice, shaking his head in scorn. “We robbed them blind and they don’t even care.”

“Shh!” Tims hissed, looking around fearfully. “Not so loud. Somebody might turn us in, and I don’t know how I’d explain getting arrested to Bertha.”

“Like the risk ain’t worth it?” Sherson asked archly. “Come on, Tims. Our little ‘enterprise’ made you more than you get in six months selling anvils.”

Tims tilted his head. “That’s true.”

“Well,” Childers offered, “We’d better get while the getting’s good. The rain’s stopped, so there’ll be a stage this afternoon. I say we scram before we get caught.”

Tims was still looking around anxiously, but Durning and Sherson traded chuckles of greedy mirth.

“Relax.” Durning fanned his hand, threw in a card. “These sheep don’t suspect a thing.”

“He might,” Childers said nervously, tipping his head toward the corner of the bar.

Durning followed his gaze. Through the hazy sunlit smoke they all saw Ezra Standish sitting at a felt covered table, all by himself. He’d been there all morning; he was there early, when they’d all been eating breakfast, but he hadn’t come over to say hello. In fact, he hadn’t acknowledged their presence at all, just sat there playing with that deck of cards, ignoring the world and everyone in it.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Ezra had looked up once, some time earlier when that dark-haired fella with the moustache and the hermit came in. The dark-haired fella just walked right to the bar and leaned into it, like he was meaning to do some serious drinking. He had a look on his face like he wanted to break something in half. Ezra had watched the guys for a few minutes with this strange look on his face, then gotten up and gone over to them. They talked, but it didn’t look to any of the salesmen like the black-haired fella was up to much conversation, so after exchanging some quiet words with the long-haired lawman Ezra had returned to his table and gone back to doing tricks with his cards. He never took his eyes off the bar, though.

Then he’d gone back to flipping his cards, over and over, and every once in a while he’d look out the saloon doors, then he’d turn the cards again, with this funny look on his face, like he was worried about something.

“You know,” Durning muttered as he regarded his companions, “When we were playing poker together, Standish had a face you couldn’t read with a microscope. And now look at him - it’s like he’s turned inside out. You can read him like a circus poster.”

They all looked.

Durning shook his head at his cards. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“He might suspect something,” Tims was saying, his thin voice quivering. “After all, he knows we sell safes and things.”

“And that’s all he knows,” Sherson said confidently, taking another swig of beer and setting the mug down with a satisfied sigh.

“Well, so, now what?” Childers asked as he looked at his cards. “I mean, do we leave?”

“Leave!” Durning chuckled. “I’m having the time of my life here!”

“Me, too,” Tims said with a childish smirk. “I never get to have this much fun back home.”

“Yeah, but - ” Childers looked around, lowered his voice, “We broke the law. If we hang around, we just might get caught. ” He cast a significant look at Ezra, who was still sitting by himself, shuffling his cards in a preoccupied, melancholy way.

“Never mind him,” Sherson sneered. “He’s nothing. I say we hang around and find out what else this little town-without-a-sheriff has to offer. We might get to take the rest of the year off.”

The other men smiled.

“Yes, gentlemen,” Sherson leaned back and put a smug smile on his large face, “Admit it. Our luck is changing, and we are riding high.”

Sherson laughed, and the others laughed with him, too wrapped up in themselves to notice that, a few feet away, a shadowy figure lost among the drunken souls watched them, and smiled.

And made plans.

  
  


Vin acknowledged Mary’s approach with a touch of his hat, and the other men gave her tired smiles in greeting. Fumbling with her newspapers, Mary stammered, “Gentlemen, I’m sorry to interrupt you, I was just wondering how Mr. Dunne is doing?”

“We’re on our way back to Nathan’s now,” Josiah said, “if you’d like to come along.”

“Oh - no.” Mary looked down at her papers, suddenly felt like she was intruding. She still wasn’t sure she could look at those awful wounds again. “I - I’ve got work to do...”

Vin looked at her with steady, penetrating eyes that seemed to say, whatever you decide. His eyes flicked to where Conklin was standing, some distance away, glaring at all of them. He asked, “Trouble?”

“No. Well, yes,” Mary amended. “I’ve been told the hotel was robbed last night.”

The men seemed to sag collectively. One more worry to add to their already unbearable load.

“I’ll see to it,” Vin drawled apathetically. Then he added, “Later.”

Mary nodded, sorry she’d mentioned it. She looked up and locked eyes with Buck, for a moment, but he was becoming hollow, his eyes remote and fatigued, and she glanced away, suddenly embarrassed at seeing so much of him laid out nakedly in those blue eyes.

The group began to move silently away, and after glancing around quickly, Mary said in a low voice, “Have you -”

The men stopped, turned.

“Have any of you men seen Chris?”

Looks exchanged. Josiah leaned close to her and spoke, his voice so low only Mary could hear it. “I rode out with him last night. He’s safe, at least from these good folk, till the judge gets back.”

Mary nodded. At least someone had seen him. She backed away a step, tried to pull herself away from the serious group, felt she didn’t belong. “Well - give JD my best.”

Buck nodded absently. Josiah said, “We will, thank you, Mrs. Travis.”

And they moved away then, like ghosts, hardly making a noise. Mary’s heart lurched. She remembered other times she’d seen these men together, and this was so odd. They were still the same, but it was as if they were moving in another time, so weighted down were they from the recent events. And it won’t ever be the same, Mary realized with a sickening finality. Even if JD recovers. Even if Chris does time. Even if the townspeople forgive him. No matter how it comes out, it will never be the same.

She blinked tears out of her eyes, and went about selling her newspapers.

  
  


**Dreaming.

Faces. Voices, unfamiliar, knew them once, don’t now. Hurts...

Remembering.

Sea salt, fresh air, breezes through open windows. _JD, don’t play with the clean sheets._ Cuddles and laughter, holding close.

Older.

Separation. He’s ready, strong lad, put him in the stables. Manure and sore muscles, they’re a bunch of bullies, but I can ride better than them.

I miss her.

Older.

Learning, getting better, nights get longer. Turn the lamp down, JD. Not so strong now. _Mama, you okay?_ Time to be a man now, not sure I want that. But still the cool salt air breezes through open summer windows.

Remember. **

  
  


Nathan finished wringing the damp cloth out in the washbasin and gently laid it on JD’s forehead. As soon as he did so, he saw the long black eyelashes flutter, and after a moment JD’s eyes opened. He looked at Nathan with drowsy resignation, his pupils widely dilated, didn’t move. Nathan felt relief; the herbal mixture he’d given JD was still working.

There was no flighty panic this time, only a sleepy sigh. JD took a deep breath, made hard with the bandages. “Where am I?”

_He still doesn’t remember. Damn._ “You’re in my room, in Four Corners.”

Black eyebrows came together in bewilderment. “Four Corners?”

Nathan nodded, saw JD’s confusion. “You been hit on the head, so you might be confused for a while. But you’re safe.”

JD nodded, accepting it. He looked around the room, and his eyes widened.

“It’s like in my books about the west,” he said with a kind of wonder. Then his eyes went back to Nathan. “Did a horse kick me?”

Nathan shook his head. “You took a nasty spill.”

“Oh.” JD stared at the ceiling a moment. “My mama’s going to be sore. She’s always worried I’m going to hurt myself riding.”

Nathan worked the cloth around JD’s face, minding the stitches, the bruised and swollen flesh. “Well, you gonna be all right. You just need to take it easy for a while.”

JD nodded again, complete acquiescence. His eyes went to Nathan, searching. “I’ve never seen a Negro doctor before.”

Nathan smiled gently. “I ain’t a doctor. I’m just helping you out, like your mama asked me to.”

JD nodded, and blinked sleepily, closed his eyes. Suddenly he opened them again. “Oh!”

Nathan stopped working the cloth, looked at JD in concern. “What is it?”

“My mama would kill me,” JD stammered, blinking at Nathan in mortification. “I’ve been rude. I don’t know what your name is.”

Nathan smiled again. “I’m Nathan, son. Nathan Jackson.”

“Oh.” JD relaxed, closed his eyes again. “Gosh, she would have killed me.”

A few moments later JD’s breathing became deep and regular, and Nathan knew he was asleep again. Thank God. JD didn’t remember how he’d tried to walk, and fell. Thank God, he didn’t ask about it, because if he had Nathan didn’t know what he would have said. Sometimes, in the war he’d seen men injured that way, but most of them never recovered, ended up in wheelchairs, useless from that day on. That thought sent shivers up Nathan’s spine, sent a rage coursing through him he didn’t think he was capable of.

It was a good thing for Chris that he wasn’t in town. Nathan looked at JD’s battered, sleeping face. And fought his anger.

There was a gentle tap at the door, and Nathan went to answer it.

The first thing he saw when he swung open the wooden door was Vin’s face, drawn and tired-looking, his broad frame filling the doorway. Behind him, Nathan saw Buck and Josiah, looking as haggard as he felt.

Vin didn’t waste time on a greeting. “How is he?”

Nathan glanced backward, saw JD was still asleep, stepped outside a little and half-closed the door. The other men formed a ring around him, and in the morning sun Nathan saw nothing but worry, worry he hated himself for for not being able to make go away.

He pursed his lips, then said, “He’s been awake a few times. I gave him something for the pain, so he’s kind of groggy. That’s not bad for him, though.”

“He remember what happened?” Buck asked anxiously.

Nathan shook his head. “He thinks he’s back in Boston with his mama.” At Buck’s crestfallen expression he hastened to add, “But that could change. I seen lots of folks hit in the head, just be confused for a few days. He just needs time.”

Buck didn’t seem reassured. The unspoken possibility that this might not change, that JD might never remember the past six months of his life, hung unspoken in the air like a venomous insect.

“And I’m thinkin’,” Nathan continued, “that it’s best if we let him remember on his own. I don’t want nobody bringin’ up what happened to him before he’s ready to handle it. Things gonna be rough enough on him, without having to deal with that it was Chris that done this thing. Y’all with me?”

Nods. Buck glared at the wooden planks beneath their feet.

Josiah peered closely at Nathan’s exhausted face. “You look like shit, Nathan. You get any sleep at all?”

“Yeah, some,” Nathan said somewhat defensively. As if sleep was a priority to him at the moment. “How much sleep do I usually get when one of y’all gets hurt?”

Vin tilted his head a bit, gazed into the darkened room. What he was seeing Nathan couldn’t guess, but his blue eyes looked haunted and sad. “Chris ain’t sleepin’ much either, I reckon.”

“Good.” Buck said savagely.

Josiah gave him a curious look, but Vin ignored the remark and said, “You go get some rest, doc. We can watch over JD.”

Nathan rubbed his neck. Sleep sounded so good, but...

Buck saw it first, saw something race through Nathan’s eyes. Nathan saw his whole body tense, and his expression was suspicious and fearful. “There something else?”

Nathan paused, but there was no help for it. “JD can’t walk.”

The other men froze for a moment. Buck seemed to go white. After a moment Josiah dipped his head and scratched one eye, a nervous gesture Nathan had seen before. “I ain’t sure yet, but it might pass,” Nathan said, “Could be that bump he got on the back of his head messed his walkin’ up some. I seen that before, but...”

Nathan stopped. Any explanation he could give felt stupid, useless. His eyes met the others’, and he almost felt ashamed. Up until the previous evening, there was the possibility that JD could get better soon, get over his broken bones and bruises, and things would be better in about a month. After last night, it would be maybe a few months, to give his faltering memory a chance to improve. Then things would return to normal, more or less, at least for JD.

With Nathan’s words of this morning, though, things weren’t going to get better.

Things were over.

Buck locked his arms around the back of his neck, walked to the narrow wooden railing of the balcony and stared at the street below, his entire being humming with anguish.

Josiah took a step toward him, then seemed to reconsider and turned back to Nathan, his kind eyes solemn and serious. “Go to the church and get some sleep, doc. We’ll take care of things here.”

It was a tone that wouldn’t be argued with, and Nathan nodded, suddenly too drained to protest. “If JD wakes up and he’s restless, give him some of those herbs I got steepin’ on the table. He won’t need much.”

Vin’s eyes dipped, indicating understanding. He was watching Buck.

As Nathan’s retreating footsteps echoed down the long stairway below them, Josiah moved next to Buck, stood close. He looked into the gunslinger’s face, saw the open wound of fright there.

“JD’s strong,” Josiah said firmly, trying to reach through the caul of dread that he could feel surrounding Buck like a shroud. “He’s stubborn too. Don’t give up on him yet.”

“God damn him.” Buck said in a strained, vicious voice. He wasn’t talking about JD, Josiah knew, and wondered at the depth of hatred in his friend’s words. Josiah glanced at Vin; the former buffalo hunter was staring at the ground, his handsome face a blend of despair and resolution; he wasn’t giving up yet, on any of them.

But Buck was, it seemed. Josiah tried again. “Buck, we best keep our minds on the here and now. Chris has got his own - ”

“Don’t say that name to me,” Buck seethed, and when he turned toward Josiah there was white-hot fury in those blue eyes.

Josiah opened his mouth again. One last try...

The rage in Buck’s eyes slammed into Josiah like a physical force as the gunslinger took a half-step forward and shook his head menacingly. “ _Don’t ._ ”

Josiah sighed, backed down. Buck looked at him, then Vin, then said in a low voice aching with unhappiness, “When the boy wakes up again, come and get me. I’ll be in the saloon.”

He walked past Josiah, down the stairs, and Josiah and Vin traded doubtful looks as together they listened to his boots stomping down the wooden planks, one by one.

Things were over.

Then Vin hunched his shoulders, and together they opened the door to Nathan’s room and went inside.

  
  


Mary finally set her pen down after spending hours going over her books, and decided it was time to lock up and go get some supper.

She sighed tiredly and rose to her feet, groaning at muscles made sore by two days of solid worrying. She walked wearily toward the door to lock it. _I really must stop this. I only wish I knew how._

Chris was gone. Maybe he wouldn’t come back. If he didn’t, the others would form a posse and go after him, and Mary knew that if it came to that Chris would be better off if they didn’t find him. Josiah and Nathan might work hard at forgiving Chris for hurting JD; Vin seemed to be trying to avoid taking sides; Buck and Ezra had made no secret of their enmity toward Chris. And as for herself...

The sun was fading in the streets now, glowing crimson and gold, and Mary leaned against the inside of the door as one hand fumbled to lock it. What did she think? What would she say to Chris when he did come back to face his accusers? Chris was dangerous, on edge, didn’t seem to mind that some people thought he was a little deranged. But, at least before this, people seemed to respect him, maybe even like him a little bit for helping out the town.

But then the awful events of the other night had occurred, and it was like a lightning bolt had gone through the town, severing it from the way things had been. Of course, the official story was that Chris had gone to look for JD’s attackers, but everyone seemed to know that was a lie. And suddenly, the men she and her father-in-law had looked to for help in ridding the town of the outlaw element had become suspect themselves, and Chris was the most hated man of them all. Even if he came back, Orin would have a hell of a time keeping him alive long enough for a trial, or to pass sentence if Chris pleaded guilty.

Pass sentence...plead guilty...trial...Mary winced as the words marched across her mind, those words didn’t belong with Chris. He was wild, but he had a decent heart, and Mary’s heart ached to think of what he was going through, wherever he was. JD was badly hurt, but he had his friends, and the townspeople, to help him through whatever ordeals he had to face. Chris was alone, alone with the grief and guilt and self-recrimination that she was sure he was feeling. Ezra had said he wanted Chris to suffer; maybe Chris was supposed to suffer, to atone for what he did. Maybe there was a purpose to everything that had happened, but that possibility didn’t ease the twinge in Mary’s stomach, didn’t make the knot between her shoulders go away. And she knew that, wherever Chris was, it was no comfort to him either.

If only she could get some good news about JD, but there was no solace there either, no possibility that JD’s injuries would turn out to be a mere inconvenience, for a while. She’d seen Buck on the street earlier that day, wanted to ask, but the look on his face froze the words on her tongue. She had never seen him so angry, so upset, so...so helpless-looking, like a little boy whose dog had been killed in the street and he didn’t know where the anger should go. It frightened her to see that look on Buck. So she had let him walk by, and felt the cold air in his wake.

But she had needed to know, so she had gone to pay JD a visit. He’d been asleep, with Vin and Josiah keeping vigil in that still, silent room. Mary winced as she recalled how her heart had broken at the sight of JD, still so pale and bruised and broken, and at Chris’ hands. Vin had hardly spoke a word, merely stood at the window and gazed at the street, so it was Josiah she had asked, how is he? And it was Josiah who had taken her arm and led her out of that dark room, and back outside, and said in his low, gentle rumble, it’s not good, Mrs. Travis, and had told her. And her heart had broken more.

Mary was just about finished pulling down the last shade when she heard a soft knock on her door. Curious, she peeked out the drawn shade and recognized Mrs. Potter standing outside.

“Oh,” Mary said almost unconsciously, and unbolted the door.

Mrs. Potter’s broad face was grave as she slipped inside the door. “Mary.”

“Gloria,” Mary said, hoping she didn’t look too confused. “I’m sorry, I was just closing up to go to supper.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Mrs. Potter said in a low voice, “But I thought I should tell you, Mr. Conklin is stirring up some trouble.”

“Trouble?” Mary’s eyes went a little wide. “What sort of trouble?”

“Oh, he’s upset.” Mrs. Potter took a few steps into the office, clearly peeved. “He’s been running around since yesterday, saying how the town’s going to go to hell now that Mr. Larabee’s run off.”

“Yes.” Mary rubbed her arm and looked at the floor. “He bent my ear about that too.”

“Only now he’s gone farther,” Mrs. Potter said in a worried voice. “He’s been telling some of the other men that the hired guns can’t be trusted. That he should take over as sheriff until your father-in-law arrives.”

“He mentioned that to me too,” Mary admitted. “But they’d never - ”

“Oh, yes they would.” Mrs. Potter’s face was set as she stared at Mary. “They’re seriously considering it. He called a town meeting this afternoon that you’re not supposed to know about.”

“But - ” Mary sputtered for a moment. “But he has no experience! And the other men haven’t done anything wrong. They’re still working to protect this town!”

“I know that.” Mrs. Potter nodded, “But he’s got the town fathers mighty riled up with his talk. They’re ready to run Mr. Tanner and the others out on a rail.”

Mary gasped and leaned against her desk.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” Mrs. Potter said in a curious monotone. “But there’s more.”

Mary looked up. More?

“He’s been talking against you, too. Sayin’ that you let them men influence you too much. That you’re not fit to make town decisions anymore.”

“What! Why, that -”

“It’s bad, Mary.” Mrs. Potter shook her head, her small eyes deep with concern. “You and I both know, with Mr. Larabee gone the outlaws are going to come back. And if Mr. Conklin is sheriff, he’ll be dead inside of two minutes.”

Mary nodded wildly. Inside of one!

“I’m trying to think of what to do,” Mrs. Potter said anxiously. “I owe those men a lot, Mary. I don’t like what Mr. Larabee done, but I don’t want to see them go. And I don’t want to see what’s going to happen to this town if we lose the only law we got.”

The room seemed to be spinning. Mary put her hands on the desk, to make it stop.

“Mr. Watson agrees with me,” Mrs. Potter said in a slightly more hopeful tone. “And some of the others too. They’re not all falling for Conklin’s hotheaded talk, but a lot are. Too many. I’m - I’m worried, Mary. For my children, and for you. And Mr. Dunne, if they make his friends go.”

Mary ran a hand over her forehead. This can’t be happening.

“We’ve got to think, Mary.” Mrs. Potter made a fist, her eyes a bit desperate. “It might end up being just you and me and a few others, but we’ve got to be ready. And think of what we’re gonna do after Conklin runs off the others and gets himself killed.”

Mary nodded, suddenly wishing with all her soul that Stephen was still alive. He’d know what to do.

Mrs. Potter looked down, tugged at her dress self-consciously. “I’m very sorry, Mary, I know this isn’t good news. But you’ve always been a friend to me, and I don’t think what Conklin is doing is right. If for no other reason than that if he gets his way, by the time Orin arrives Mr. Dunne is going to be missing half his friends, and he’ll as like never see them again. And I know...” Her eyes met Mary’s then, two widows talking in the setting golden sunlight. “I know what it’s like to miss someone. Mr. Dunne doesn’t deserve that. None of us do.”

Mary gazed at Mrs. Potter for a moment, couldn’t think of a thing to say. Finally, she put out one hand and placed it on her friend’s arm and said, “Don’t worry, Gloria. Orin will be here soon, and everything will be all right.”

Mrs. Potter looked down at the floor again, sighed, looked out the window as she moved to the door. “I hope so, Mary. Because I’m frightened by the way our menfolk are thinking. I truly am.”

Mary gave Mrs. Potter a half-smile as the other woman stepped out the door, then closed the door again and locked it.

No, they wouldn’t make Conklin sheriff. They’re not that -

A secret town meeting? Not include her? How could they do -

Vin and Buck gone. Ezra gone. They’d let Nathan stay, and Josiah maybe. But JD would blame himself, and what could she do to comfort him? What could anyone do?

_Oh, Chris._ Mary pulled down the last shade and watched the sunlight disappear. _I wonder where you are. I wonder if you know what you’ve done._

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

The cantina was noisy, garish, the strung-up paper lanterns waving back and forth in the light desert breeze. Their bright paper colors were a stark, almost ugly contrast to the real beauty of the last rays of the setting sun, their brilliant bobbing lights a pale imitation of the twinkling stars that sat fixed in the dark blue sky above.

The desert sky was beautiful, but Chris did not see it.

It was nighttime, and the little roadside stop was bustling with travelers eager to get off the dusty, hot road and do some serious drinking and whoring. Spanish and English flowed together, mixed and soared into the warm night over the brightly-lit hostel, and somewhere behind him Chris could hear a drunken voice yelling for more tequila, then a feminine squeal of delight, a response to a kiss. Or a slap.

He kept walking.

This inn sat near a bluff, a scrubby knob of land that was not high but afforded a nice enough view of the rocky, shrub-filled valley below. It was an impressive sight in the daylight, but now the darkness made a featureless pit of the land below the bluff, a great black stretch of land that yawned in front of Chris, a rocky sea of cold dirt and nameless bones.

Chris walked up to the edge of the bluff, stared into the valley without seeing it. The cantina was half a mile behind him, and when the wind blew in the right direction he could hear snatches of song, shouting, cursing, the sounds of a busy western night.

Sarah.

See the stars? We used to look at those stars together, didn’t we? Every night. I’d be so tired, and think I just wanted to go to bed, but you’d pull me out onto the porch after you put Adam to bed and we’d end up looking at the stars until we fell asleep together. And then I’d wake up just before dawn, all damp with dew and sore as hell from sleeping on the porch.

God, I love you, Sarah.

It’s been so long, three years. Is there time where you are? Do you miss me, or even remember me? Are you watching me, Sarah?

Were you watching me that night?

Oh, God, Sarah, I hurt him. He was just trying to help me, and I hurt him so badly, I think he might die. I’m so ashamed of myself, I never thought it would go that far, but I was drunk. I thought he was going after you and Adam, and so I hurt him, and I kept hurting him. He probably begged me to stop, probably he tried to get away from me, but I just grabbed him again and hit and hit and hit -

Jesus God. Why didn’t I die instead?

Everything hurts now. Buck’s eyes. I saw them before he left. He hates me now. He should hate me. And Josiah, he tried to be kind, but he’s worried, worried about the others, what will happen now that I’ve finally snapped and blown all their loyalty and trust straight to hell. When I lost you and Adam, my life ended.

Now it’s ending again. I don’t think I can take this anymore.

I used to be just mad. After the fire, I was mad at everything. I became a lawman, maybe I was a good one. No worse than anybody else. But it felt good, because I could get mad and shoot people and beat them, all in the name of the law. Nobody complained.

Then one day I wandered into Four Corners.

Did you know, Sarah? Were you watching me that day, when I was drinking rotgut whiskey out of a broken bottle? Did you look down the street with me, and see Vin standing there? Sometimes I think you were trying to help me, you probably wanted me to get back into the world again. Vin helped some, and Buck tried, but it’s not the same with him.

And the others, they didn’t seem to mind hanging around this crazy-looking stranger who dressed in black all the time. Josiah and Nathan, they just seemed to accept it, I guess they’ve seen worse. Ezra didn’t like me, but I didn’t like him either, not at first. I still don’t trust him all the time, but...

And JD. Oh, Jesus Christ, JD.

He just wanted to be like me, he said so himself. He respected me, looked up to me. Just wanted to have someone to look at and say, isn’t he something? It bothered me sometimes, but in a way it reminded me of Adam, how he used to turn those shining eyes up to me, and they just glowed, and it touched me, Sarah. It touched me when I didn’t think anything could anymore.

JD looked up to me like that. And I broke his ribs.

I can’t go back, Sarah. I know I’m a coward. I know the man you married would never run, but I’m not that man anymore. I’ve changed. Something went hard inside, something you used to make soft, but you’re gone and Adam’s gone and there’s nothing left anymore. I used to think maybe there was, but...

I can’t stand it. Not another minute.

My demons are legion, Josiah said. I’m not sure what he meant, but it sounds right. They’re inside me, all around, and they all want me dead, and the ones who care about me, they want them dead too. It’s got to stop.

It’s got to.

The barrel of the gun was smooth in Chris’ hand, smooth and cold and hard, and for a moment he stared at it, a streak of silver in the pale light of the stars. He’d looked at that gun a million times, and now Chris gazed at it as if hypnotized, and for a long time he didn’t move, thought of nothing, just stared at the gun as the light desert breeze blew his hair away from his face.

Do it...

click.

Hopeless.

A round disc of freezing steel, pressed against the temple.

I’m so sorry, Sarah -

“Hold it, Larabee.”

Chris started, so close was the gravelly voice to his ear. He looked around, but didn’t see anyone.

“Drop the gun.”

Chris lowered his gun, his instincts starting to prickle.

Suddenly a barrel was thrust into his back. “I said drop it.”

Chris dropped his gun, as if in a dream.

A low, throaty chuckle. “Thought I recognized you, Larabee. Back in the cantina, you thought you’d blend right in, but I spotted you. Put your hands on your head and turn around.”

Chris turned slowly, tiredly, and when he faced the other man all he saw was a shaggy outline in the dark, the smell of old whiskey and unchanged clothes. And the glint of starlight off a gun barrel.

The figure chuckled, a rattling sound. “Heard about you, Larabee. Heard you got run out of town. I was hopin’ I’d find you first, pay you back for shuttin’ me down when you came.”

Chris felt tired, exhausted. He barely had the strength to blink at his attacker. “You gonna keep talkin’ or you fixin’ to shoot that thing?”

“Shuttup!” the man commanded, and whipping up his gun hand struck Chris in the side of the head. Chris fell, the landscape turning into a sea of painful stars around him.

Somewhere above him he heard the sound of a hammer being cocked. “They’ll all thank me for this.”

Chris sighed, felt sick and dizzy, slumped against the cooling sand.

Nothing left to fight with. Let him finish you off.

A gunshot. Two.

Chris groaned, but an instant later realized that he wasn’t feeling any pain. Looking up, he saw silhouetted against the night sky his attacker, holding his gun hand and speechless with agony.

What the hell -

Footsteps. Another voice. “Leave him alone, ye yella bastard, or me next shot’ll take yer worthless head off.”

Good God. The Irishman.

The other man growled something, went for his gun.

_Bang!_

The other man cursed, grabbed his arm.

The footsteps were very close now, the Irish lilt almost in Chris’ ear. “Now see what you’ve brought yerself to. I’m a reasonable man, but tempt me further an’ I’ll be losin’ my patience in a minute.”

Another curse, but the threatening shadow backed off. Farther, farther, then running sounds through the bushes, back to the cantina.

Chris heard a sigh next to him, a release of held breath. He could just barely make out the other man kneeling next to him, holstering his gun. “Are ye all right?”

Chris nodded, immediately felt stupid since the Irishman couldn’t see him. The nod made his head explode in agony, however, and he let out a sharp groan.

“Hm,” the Irishman responded. “I thought I heard the blackguard strike ye. On your head is it?”

“Leave me alone,” Chris growled. He sat up and backed away a few inches.

The other man sat on his haunches, and in the dark Chris could swear he saw him shake his head. “Leave you alone. A man risks his hide t’ save yer life, and you haven’t a farthing’s worth of gratitude for him. Well, that’ s a fine way yer mother raised you then.”

Chris sat all the way up, felt the bump on his head gingerly. “I didn’t ask you to help me.”

“Of course not.” The other replied, a little indignant it seemed to Chris. There was a pause, and in the dark the other man said, “I heard that scoundrel call you Larabee. Would that be Chris Larabee?”

“Yeah,” Chris answered in a husky whisper, past caring about what happened to him. “Don’t tell you know me too.”

“Heard of ye.” The other admitted. Another pause. “M’name’s Darcy. Darcy Thomas.”

Chris didn’t know why the other man was irritating him so much; he wished he’d go away. Still feeling the bump through his blond hair, Chris tried to get up.

And sat back down again, quick.

Darcy heaved a sigh, stood up. “All right then, Chris Larabee, since you won’t take my help I’m hopin’ you’ll at least take a hand up.”

Chris knew Darcy’s hand was in front of him, even in the dark. He hesitated, wanted to be left alone.

“Well, come on now,” Darcy said impatiently. “Them rocks aren’t going to get more comfortable, and I don’t much fancy carryin’ on a conversation in the dark.”

A conversation? Chris’ stomach fell with dread. “I told you to leave me alone, mister. I’m all right.”

Another sigh, more exasperated. “Now you listen to me, Chris Larabee. This happens to be one of me favorite stops in this area. I leave ye here and it’s sure you’ll be fallin’ right off this bluff, and once you hit the valley floor won’t nobody go down there to fetch ye. Now call me selfish, but I refuse to let yer rottin’ carcass spoil me view for the next six months. Be as stubborn as you like. I’m not leavin’ ye.”

Chris sat in the dark for a long moment and thought. His head was spinning, but mostly he was regretting not killing himself before all this happened. Whoever this Irish fellow was, he wasn’t leaving Chris alone, and Chris was starting to hate him.

Well, it looked like the world wasn’t going to be rid of him tonight. Maybe tomorrow...

With another groan from his aching head, Chris tried once more to get up. Almost immediately he felt a strong hand on his arm, guiding him as he got to his feet.

“Now, here’s an improvement,” Darcy said approvingly.

Chris tried to see the other man in the dark, but he could barely make out an outline. He felt somewhat cheated that the night prevented him from glaring at Darcy - maybe that would chase him away. But failing sufficient light, Chris just ignored Darcy and started walking slowly toward the distant lights of the cantina, his shoes crunching the little stones into the rocky soil.

“All right, so it’s not much of an improvement,” Darcy said to Chris’ back, “But it’s an improvement, nonetheless.”

Chris made a face. _Stubborn Irishman._ And walked reluctantly up the stony path, and back into the light.

  
  


The early evening found the hotel lobby deserted, except for four businessmen playing cards with a bigger stack of poker chips than they had had the previous evening.

“I still think we should have left,” Childers said nervously as he looked around. “That long-haired mountain man is gonna come through those doors any minute and arrest us.”

“Yeah,” Tims agreed, his hands not so steady on the cards.

“For what?” Sherson sneered as he waited for Tims to deal. “The money’s hidden away. And they probably don’t suspect us anyway. Give it a rest.”

Tims nodded, but his shuffling was getting sloppy.

The hotel doors opened, and Tims almost lost his hands on the deck. Durning shook his head in disgust, then turned his attention to the man who had come in.

He was about their age, maybe a year or two younger. He was fairly tall, with dark hair liberally streaked with white, and was clean-shaven. His clothes were clean but old, maybe five years out style. He smiled genially at the group and walked toward them.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, tipping his hat. “Mind if I join you?”

Durning frowned, looked at the others. Sherson shrugged; Childers and Tims both looked a little frightened.

“This is a private game, mister,” Durning said, deciding that it was best if strangers weren’t around in case one of the others got stupid and let something slip. “Go to the saloon if you’re up to a game.”

“Oh, I’m not interested in playing. Not cards, that is.” The stranger sat on the edge of a nearby armchair, pulled out a cigarette. “I understand you’re all businessmen.”

Sherson eyed the stranger. “That’s right. So what?”

“I’m a businessman too,” the other replied. “And I have a proposition for you. If you’re interested in building on your capital from last night, that is.”

Childers’ head snapped up. “What about last night?”

The stranger held up his hands, smiled gently. “Now, don’t worry, gentlemen. I happened to overhear your conversation in the saloon.”

“Oh, cripes,” Tims moaned, and turned white.

“And I must say,” The stranger leaned forward, “I’m impressed. Not many men would have the courage to pull off your little...enterprise...while there was still some law in the town. Yes, I was very impressed.”

Sherson shook his head and scowled. “What are you sayin’, mister?”

The man took a puff on his cheroot, peered through the smoke, and his voice had a new edge to it. “I’m saying I know you robbed the hotel safe last night. I’m saying I know where there’s a lot more money than that in this town, a lot more. You help me take it, and half of it is yours.”

Tims looked stunned. “I remember - you were on the porch yesterday, when the tall man was talkin’ to the townspeople. Are you a bank robber?”

“No.” The other man shook his head, “I used to have a - well, call it an investment. In this town, before Chris Larabee and his men arrived. Now that he’s gone, I’d like to take steps to reestablish myself, but I need help.”

“Don’t you guys have outlaw gangs for that kind of thing?” Childers asked.

“Oh, yes,” the man admitted. “But I don’t want to tip my hand. Several members of Larabee’s gang are still in town, and I don’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention. But I would like to get my hands on some money. And so would you, I suspect.”

The men traded uneasy glances. Durning shook his head. “You’re crazy, mister. What we did was petty larceny. You’re talkin’ full-blown theft.”

“Yes, isn’t it marvelous?” The stranger leaned back. “With Larabee gone, and his men too worried about the injured one to pay attention, this town is up for grabs. We have four days before the circuit judge arrives, and I’d like to have my fun and be gone by then. What do you say?”

Tims and Childers looked petrified; Sherson leaned forward and asked, “How much?”

“Oh...” The stranger gazed at the floor. “Maybe only thousands.”

Durning shook his head. “We’d get caught. Forget it.”

“My friend, by whom?” The stranger stood up. “Larabee is gone, the black fellow never leaves his room, the child is injured. That only leaves four men to contend with, and only one of them patrols the streets at a time. Now, they may increase their watchfulness, so time is of the essence. Tonight may be our last chance.”

Tims and Childers’ eyes darted to their companions. Durning scratched his chin. “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, well, not the bank,” the stranger answered lightly. “No, I was thinking the jewelry store next to the blacksmith’s shop. I’ve been casing it for days, but I was having trouble figuring out how to open the safe.”

“And what ‘s in the safe?” Sherson asked.

“Diamonds. Rubies. And a lot of money.”

Eyebrows went up. Looks were exchanged.

“Come on,” the stranger encouraged. “You did it last night. What a story to tell your friends back in the dreary towns you came from. And a fitting revenge on the gambler who snubbed you today, too.”

Durning cocked his head. “He’s one of them too?”

The stranger nodded. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

Durning looked at the others, looked back. “A lot of money?”

“A lot.”

“And we won’t get caught?”

“Not a chance.”

The four businessmen leaned into the table, hissing whispers flying back and forth over the poker chips and abandoned cards. The stranger calmly puffed his cheroot and stared at the wallpaper until the men leaned back, and Durning said, “Before we okay this, what’s your name? Wanna know who I’m gonna hang with.”

“Of course.” The man raised his hat. “Jameson Charles. My friends call me Concho Charles.”

“Concho Charles!” Tims exclaimed with a laugh, “Like Jesse James or something. A real outlaw!”

Concho Charles smiled.

“Okay,” Durning said in a quiet voice, “We’re in, but you pull any dirty tricks and you’ll be sorry.”

The smile grew wider, and predatory, but the businessmen didn’t see it. “My friend, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  
  


The cantina was too loud and bright for Chris, but Darcy Thomas had herded him into the lively little plaza anyway, and Chris was just too tired and wrung out to argue about it.

He’d contemplated just going his own way, getting on his horse and riding off. If this Darcy idiot tried to stop him, Chris would use the best argument he had; his fists.

But something about that course of action made the bile rise in Chris’ throat. His hands still hurt, were still red and scarred, and besides that knock on the head had made him dizzy, and it didn’t take much thinking to figure out he would be no match for a determined Irishman. That, and he didn’t want to go riding in the dark unless he absolutely had to.

So, the noisy cantina it was.

But Chris was determined to make his forceable host as miserable as possible. Darcy had taken a seat in the corner of the plaza, away from the more frenetic goings-on but still able to watch. Chris also noticed that it was one of the few places in the cantina where you had your back to the wall.

So they had sat down, and Darcy had ordered a beer, but Chris hadn’t looked at the man once to see if he’d drunk any of it. Instead he leaned forward in his rickety chair, hunching over and watching the other patrons with wary, exhausted eyes, marveling that if things had gone his way he’d be lying at the bottom of the valley right now, dead and at peace. Instead, he was in a raucous cantina with a stubborn Irishman who wouldn’t leave him the hell alone.

Hm. Hell. Maybe he was in hell.

Chris leaned his head forward, ran one scabbed hand through his blond hair. By chance he glanced behind him, caught Darcy looking at him with a strange expression on his face. Oh, God dammit, he’s going to try to talk to me. Well, let him try.

But Darcy didn’t try.

They sat in the cantina for a good hour, and in all that time the Irishman simply sat and sipped his beer, didn’t say a word. Not a sound.

What kind of game is he playing? Chris was getting madder and madder as the minutes ticked by. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Clearing his throat, he said, “You keep taking people’s part in things, you’re gonna get yourself killed, mister.”

Silence. The thump of a beer glass being set on the table. More silence.

Oh, all right then. Chris heaved his body up so he faced this strange man, who looked at him with a combination of anger and pity.

Finally Darcy smiled a bit and said, “Now, that’s a mighty peculiar statement comin’ from the likes of you, Chris Larabee.”

Chris glared at him a moment, let his eyes fall to the splintered table.

“Well, never mind it,” Darcy continued, hoisting the beer mug again. “As I said before, purely me own self-interest.”

Chris grunted, felt as if he hadn’t slept in ten years, stared at the table. “First that girl at the inn,” He muttered, trying to figure it out, “Then me. Why?”

Darcy shrugged. “That girl had no one to take her side. I figured at the least I’d get a good fight out of it.” He took another drink.

Chris let a crooked smile cross his face, sort of. “Well, I don’t need anybody taking my side.”

Darcy set the mug down again, eyed Chris sympathetically for a moment. “That ring ye had out at the inn. Yer wife?”

The way he said those words made Chris aware of exactly what he was asking. That, and the look in those grey eyes of his. Feeling that burning pit in his stomach burn brighter, Chris swallowed hard. “And my son.”

“Aw, Jesus, Mary , and Joseph,” Darcy said sadly, shaking his head and looking away.

Chris looked at the man. This wasn’t empty sympathy, not the I’m-so-sorry condolences he was used to. It was something else, something that prompted him to ask, “You?”

Darcy’s eyes shot to him for a moment, sharp and alert. Then he reached into the pocket of his black coat, took something out of it and handed it to Chris without a word.

It was a daguerreotype, an old photograph set in a gilded frame, a dark image protected by a thick plate of glass. Chris tilted it to see it better, and when he did so he made out a young woman with dark hair, set in a tidy net, wearing the wide skirts and bell sleeves that were popular during the war. She was looking very seriously at the photographer, and holding a baby in her lap.

The thump of the beer mug. A long silence. Chris studied the picture, the large eyes, the carefully arranged features, and knew without having to ask that he was looking at two people who were dead, and had been for a long time.

“Her name was Meredith,” Darcy said, and for the first time Chris heard no humor in that lilting voice, only sadness. “And little Katie.”

Chris felt the pit deepen, and he had no idea why. “What happened?”

Another pause. Thump. “It was back in Ireland. English. They came and took me. When I got back, Reddie and Kate were dead.”

Chris tilted the photograph again, watched the image vanish into the light. Then back again.

He handed the daguerreotype back, felt a twinge of kinship with this stranger, fought it. “Sorry.”

Darcy took it with a nod, tucked the photograph back in his pocket. Chris leaned forward again, only now his eyes looked beyond the incongruously bright cantina, beyond the hills, and into another time.

He heard Darcy take a deep breath. Then the Irishman said, very softly, “I won’t insult yer wife’s memory by pretendin’ to know yer pain. But I know what it’s like to want to die.”

Not just words. Chris sat back a bit, looked at Darcy. The Irishman was regarding him with eyes that Chris thought must have mirrored his own, deep and sad and full of endless anguish. Then Darcy looked down, and took another swig of beer.

_He does know. He knows, and it didn’t kill him. He knows, and he can stand it._

Chris leaned back in the chair, all the way back, until his hat bumped against the wall. He stretched his long legs out, set them on a chair, and whipped his hair out of his bloodshot eyes.

His expression was grave as he looked across the table at Darcy, who looked back at him calmly, as if waiting.

Chris cleared his throat and spoke. “Tell me about them.”

  
  


Morning came.

It came quietly, calmly, first a faint streak of pale light against the horizon, edging away the darkness and delicately extinguishing the stars. Then the brightness grew, spread, changed, until the sky glowed with the reawakened light of a brand new day.

People awoke; farm animals began their restless noise making. The dawn deepened, expanded, and before long a sliver of brilliant light was seen, a topaz diamond against the hills. The sunlight touched the chill dew of the fields, flowed over the plains and the mountains, and finally found its way to a small western town.

Shades went up. Doors were opened. At the Four Corners Clarion, Mary finished combing her hair after another night of little sleep, gazing out the window into the sleeping streets as she did so, and fought her feelings of dread.

Down the street, Nathan drew the shades up partway to let in a bit of the rising sun, then turned his attentions to mixing poultices and steeping herbs, and tried to concentrate on doing what he could to heal JD, who still slept peacefully in a world at least a year gone.

Elsewhere, four businessmen were still asleep in their rooms, after staying up too late the previous evening arguing about their latest opportunity. Their opportunist walked the early morning streets, alone, smoking a cheroot and smiling in sly anticipation of a return to chaos.

Buck prowled the streets on his horse, glancing up at Nathan’s window every so often to see if the healer was up yet. When he noticed the shade was lifted, Buck turned his mount back to the stables, and tried to bring himself to a better mood.

Josiah rose, and as he did the previous morning checked on the two candles he had lit the night Chris rode out of town. They were still lit, but had burned down to small stumps, so Josiah transferred the flames to a pair of glass votive holders he had found, and left them burning at the altar.

Vin had stabled his horse some time before, after seeing Buck riding the streets. They had acknowledged each other, but Buck had an air of distance about him, and Vin decided to leave him be, and went back to his room to sleep. And dreamed of sickrooms, and his mother, and early death.

Ezra rose early, washed and groomed himself as was his habit, and readied himself with an air of grim determination, fueled by two nights of uneasy visions, confederate grey and empty eyes. JD didn’t deserve to be forced into that future. Not by the likes of Chris Larabee. Not if Ezra could help it.

And Chris...

The morning sun was just edging its way over the adobe rooftops of the cantina when Chris rolled out onto the floor and groaned.

_Where the hell am I?_ Chris thought a moment, then recalled that he’d just rolled out of a low cot. Strange, last he remembered, he was sitting in the cantina talking to that Irishman, Darcy Thomas. How’d he get into a bed?

Opening his eyes, Chris squinted at his surroundings. He was lying in the outdoor hallway of the second floor of the cantina, still fully dressed. A slow glance to his right revealed a tumbledown cot, with messed-up bedclothes, sitting against the wall next to an open door, which Chris assumed led to a room.

_All right, I somehow ended up outside somebody’s room._ Why not? Nothing made sense anymore.

Chris ran his hand over his face and sighed, tried to remember the previous evening. Surprisingly, his recollection was clear. There had been no alcohol to muddy it, no drunken stupor to erase it. Chris was astounded at how much he recalled.

They had talked. He and Darcy Thomas had talked for...Chris didn’t even know how long. About Sarah. About Adam. About Darcy’s wife, Reddie, and his daughter Katie. It was against every fiber of Chris’ nature to say more than two words to people, especially strangers, but Darcy’s openness about his own loss made Chris trust the man. Even if it was only for a night.

And now...

Chris started to get up, trying to ignore the throbbing reminder of the blow to the head he’d received last night. Grimacing, he put one hand to his temple and braced the other against the earthen balcony beside him, and dragged himself to his feet.

The balcony overlooked the interior plaza of the cantina, where he’d been sitting with Darcy the previous evening. It was empty now, and Chris could see some workmen cleaning the place up, moving tables and sweeping away scattered debris. There was a peculiar hollowness to the scene, which had been so lively and colorful the night before and was now drab and lifeless. Chris blinked, wondered why he’d even think that philosophically first thing in the morning. Never seen a bar in the morning, he guessed. Not through sober eyes, anyway.

An older woman came up the passageway, the maid Chris guessed, and gave him a questioning look. Glancing at the cot, she tilted her head at him. “Would señor care for some breakfast?”

Chris sighed, gazed out on the plaza, shook his head. The woman nodded, leaned over the bed and began stripping the thin sheets off it.

“You can take it,” Chris said, still staring at the empty plaza. “I’m movin’ on.”

The woman paused, bundled up the sheets, and walked away. Chris watched her as she waddled down the hallway, but he didn’t really see her until another maid appeared out of a room and their heads came together in fast, whispered conversation. The other maid looked at Chris, said something. The older woman glanced back, then nodded quickly, and their heads fell even closer together as their words hissed back and forth. They knew.

Chris’ jaw tensed, and his eyes dropped to his scabbed hands which were clutching the balcony edge. _I wonder how JD is doing?_ A searing stab of guilt wrenched his gut. Talking to that Irishman had eased his tortured soul, some, but Chris knew there would be no absolution from what he’d done to JD, to the other men, to Four Corners. He wasn’t looking for any, but God, he wanted to know if JD was going to be all right. He’d never be forgiven, and he deserved that, he could never go back, he understood, but still he wanted to know. Needed some reassurance that the other men could still hold their heads up, that the town didn’t tar them with his black deed, that JD would be back on his feet pretty soon, and someday not hate Chris too much to remember that once he’d looked up to him, like Adam had. If only there were someone who would tell him. But then, maybe that was Hell. To need to know forever, and never find out. That sounded right.

Someone walked into the plaza below, catching Chris’ eye. It was Darcy, talking to a man Chris recognized as the innkeeper, chatting quietly as he rolled down the sleeves of his white shirt. The innkeeper nodded, more quiet words were exchanged, then Darcy gave the man a congenial pat on the shoulder and made his way across the deserted courtyard.

Chris gripped the cold adobe harder, and cursed the Irishman. Why had he interfered? That renegade had his pistol at Chris’ back, would have finished him off. The loneliness would be over. The anger would be over. The overwhelming guilt would be -

Another movement in the empty plaza caught Chris’ eye, and he tensed. Darcy was walking slowly toward the narrow two-story passage that led to the outside, still rolling down his sleeves and softly whistling to himself. As soon as he walked into the passage’s shadow, someone else slid out a nearby doorway behind him, a shaggy long-haired man with a crude bandage wrapped around his right arm. Then two other men joined him, men with guns in their hands.

Chris’ mind leapt to last night. Jesus Christ -

Darcy stopped, turned around, and even in the shadows Chris could see the mixture of surprise and then, anger on his face.

The men rushed forward.

And Chris Larabee ran for the stairs.

  
  


The passageway was narrow, but Darcy was working it to his advantage when Chris came tearing across the plaza with his gun drawn.

“It’s a fight ye want, is it!” the Irishman hollered as he slammed practiced fists into the bellies of his assailants. The hallway was too slender for more than one man to attack him at a time, so Darcy had simply taken to punching one man, backing up while he recovered, and looking for a good opportunity to make a run for it.

The shaggy, bandaged man waited until Darcy was occupied slugging his henchmen to raise his gun, in his uninjured hand. Darcy saw the move, shoved his attacker away, and reaching into his pocket pulled out a small Derringer.

Then he spotted Chris, a half-moment before the gunslinger jammed his gun into the shaggy man’s side with one hand, and grabbed a large fistful of his mangy hair in the other.

“Call off your dogs,” Chris snarled in the man’s ear, “or you can come here on the weekends to visit your guts.”

The henchmen paused, then looked back at Darcy, who kept his gun level at them and said, “Don’t be lookin’ at me. I’m for the spillin’ guts part, meself.”

Chris yanked on the shaggy man’s hair. He yelped and dropped his gun, more out of surprise than anything else.

With a guttural growl, Chris dragged the man back into the plaza and threw him to the ground.

Darcy took a step backward and said, “Now, I should be shootin’ the both of ye for messin’ up me Sunday suit. But if ye hand over yer weapons and let me watch ye runnin’ from here with yer tails between yer legs, I’ll actually find that much more amusin’.”

The henchmen backed up, a few steps. Then, almost at the same instant, they both raised their guns.

_BANG! BANG!_

Two shots from opposite directions sent the outlaw’s guns spinning onto the tile. Jerking their hands back in pain, the two men whipped their heads around to stare at Chris, then Darcy, who both stood with guns smoking and faces dark with anger.

Then they almost ran Darcy over in their hurry to get away from that place.

Darcy chuckled at their retreating forms, then walked back into the plaza where Chris was busy tying up the shaggy man. Tucking his gun back in his pocket, Darcy said, “You’re up.”

Chris tied the last knot. “Songbirds around here make it pretty tough for a man to sleep.”

Darcy took out a handkerchief, dabbed at his bleeding lip, and examined his trussed attacker. “Ye do fast work. Were you a lawman once?”

Chris straightened up, sighed, looked at Darcy with polite detachment. “Look, Mr. Thomas, I’m obliged for your help last night and all, but we don’t have anything else to discuss. You’d best fetch the innkeeper so’s this man can be turned over to the proper authorities. I gotta be movin’ on.”

Chris tugged his hat, paused as he tried to read Darcy’s face. He’d expected surprise, or at least annoyance at his curtness. He was used to that.

But Darcy simply shrugged. “As you please. At least take a moment to accept my gratitude for roundin’ up this rascal.”

Chris blinked at the bound, cursing man at his feet, felt the rush of justice done, and for a moment he was standing back in Four Corners, after heading off some small-time miscreant, and he almost thought when he lifted his head again it would be Buck, or Vin, standing there waiting for his silent signal to go to the saloon.

But when Chris looked up from the pale-pink tile, it was the stranger Darcy Thomas who was looking at him, and Chris’ heart broke again.

Darcy put his hand out, and Chris took it limply.

“Godspeed to ye, wherever ye’re bound,” the Irishman said sincerely.

Chris suddenly felt very alone. “Thanks. Same to you.”

“Eh, I’m certainly hopin’ so,” Darcy said lightly, turning around and pulling a pair of riding gloves out of one pocket, “I understand that those who travel to Four Corners need a God on their side. I packed a few guardian angels too, just in case.”

The innkeeper showed up, his dark eyes wide at the tied-up gunslinger underneath Chris’ boot. But Chris was distracted, and waving a stopping hand to the innkeeper he called out the retreating form in the passageway. “Did you say Four Corners?”

Darcy slowed down, stopped. His shoes scuffed against the tile as he turned back toward Chris. “That’s right. D’ye know it?”

Chris couldn’t find words for a moment. Finally he said, “Heard of it.”

Darcy stood there in the cool morning shadows, pulling on his gloves. Finally he looked up at Chris and smiled. “Well, it may be that we’re movin’ on in the same direction, Chris Larabee. D’ye know any good Irish songs?”

Chris was thinking, he’s going there. He can tell me. Then at least I’ll know. And shook his head.

“Ah.” Darcy snorted as he turned to go down the passageway once more. “Come along then, God help ye. Ye’re about to learn some.”

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

JD made a face of impatient frustration at Nathan as he tried to push himself up against the pillows that had been piled at his back. Buck had arrived minutes before with breakfast, and JD was awake, and hungry.

Hungry and petulant. “I can feed myself,” JD grumbled, looking peevishly at Nathan and wincing as he inadvertently moved his bad arm under the bandage.

The healer lowered the bowl of broth he’d been helping JD eat out of and sat back, glancing at Buck, who was sitting on the other side of him. “Well, you might not remember who we are yet, but at least you still got a memory for bein’ difficult. I guess that’s something.”

JD sat back against the pillows and gazed at Buck and Nathan sadly. The exertion was clearly too much for him. His face was covered with sweat, and he was breathing heavily, his face flushed against the dark bruises and cuts that crisscrossed over his skin.

But he wasn’t giving up; with another effort, he pulled himself up a little more, the anger at his infirmities written large on his young face.

Buck became alarmed, leaned forward and put his hands on JD’s shoulders. “Now you just settle down now, son,you trying to hurt yourself? Just calm down.”

JD pushed against him, struggled to free himself from the sheets that were binding him down. “Let go of me.”

“Buck,” Nathan put a cautionary hand on Buck’s arm, and the other man leaned back as JD once more stopped his venture and lay panting in the bed. Nathan bent over and said softly, “Now son, I know you want to get on out of that bed quick, and we gonna help you every step of the way. But you gotta go slow, or you ain’t gonna go at all.”

JD just blinked at him, his eyes full of aggravation.

“You been hurt pretty bad,” Nathan continued, not looking at Buck’s face as he said the words. “And it’s gonna be a while before you gonna be fit to be up and around. Now ain’t you sore from tryin’ to move so much?”

JD’s mouth scrunched around, but he didn’t deny it.

“You gotta stay put,” Nathan said in an authoritative way. “You do that, and before you know it you’ll be runnin’ on out that door. But for now, you gotta let those bones heal. You gotta rest.”

JD frowned, his eyes hot and accusatory. “I can’t run. I can’t even walk. What happened to me?”

Buck and Nathan traded glances. Buck stood up and walked a few feet away.

“You still don’t remember?” Nathan asked, setting the bowl down. The soup could wait.

JD shook his head, his black hair falling against those red marks, his battered face full of anxiety. “I don’t remember anything. I don’t know you, and I don’t know him. I don’t know where I’m at, and I don’t know where my mother is, but I think she needs me.”

He was becoming agitated, trying again to move. Nathan put a hand out then, one gentle hand on the shoulder to calm JD down, and he looked into those deep brown eyes. “Why you say that, son?”

JD let his head flop back against the pillow, sighed and closed his eyes. “She’s sick. She’s sick somewhere. I remember that.” He opened his eyes again, looked at Nathan imploringly. “Have you seen her? Is she going to be okay?”

Nathan pursed his lips, patted JD’s shoulder. “She’s going to be fine, son. But I think if she were here, she’d be tellin’ you to get some rest.”

JD sighed again, a heavy sigh tinged with tears, and stared at the ceiling.

Nathan leaned back in his chair, and looked at Buck. The gunslinger was standing at the foot of the bed, regarding JD with a look of fear and something like bewilderment. It reminded Nathan of a time when he was a boy, and his friends had built a raft to use on the little river that wound around the plantation he lived on. He really wanted to ride that raft, but he was just thirty seconds too late to join the others as they pushed it off shore. He had to stand there and watch them sail away without him. They didn’t even look back.

The way he’d felt, Buck was wearing on his face at that moment.

I don’t know you, and I don’t know him...

Nathan sighed, hating the helplessness he felt. He dipped a clean cloth in the washbasin, wrung it out, and pressed it against JD’s flushed face. The boy closed his eyes against the cooling dampness, and swallowed a gulp of air.

“Now, you’re learning,” Nathan said in gentle chastisement, and added quietly, “You’ll be fine, JD. We got it all figured out.”

JD just blinked at him, and was perhaps going to reply, but he was interrupted when the door to Nathan’s room opened and Ezra came in.

Buck, who was standing closer to the door, stepped back and took a good look at the gambler. He hadn’t been to Nathan’s room since the previous day. Nathan thought perhaps he wouldn’t come back to JD’s bedside at all, given the high emotions that were running in that small space, including Ezra’s.

But here Ezra was, not red-faced with anger like yesterday, but with a congenial, almost cheerful look on his fair face. He smiled at the group, and it seemed to Buck at JD in particular, and said, “Good morning, gentlemen. I trust I’m not interrupting.”

Nathan glanced at JD, who was peering at Ezra with a kind of rapt curiosity. Nathan removed the cloth from JD’s face, and the gambler winced at the red-black lacerations and purple bruises that were revealed to him then. But Ezra looked down and swallowed quickly, and when his eyes met JD’s they were full of sunshine.

“You ain’t interruptin’,” Nathan said as he sat back. “We’re just trying to keep JD from killin’ himself tryin’ to get out of bed.”

“Well, a noble endeavor to be sure,” Ezra said lightly as he sat in the chair Buck had vacated.

JD turned his head, stared at Ezra, his wounded eyes going over the red jacket, the brocaded vest, the pack of cards that Ezra was flipping in his hands.

“Are you a gambler?” JD asked in fascinated tones.

“Certainly not,” Ezra replied with mock indignation. If he was bothered by JD not knowing who he was, he didn’t show it. “I am a dealer of chance, my young friend, a purveyor of amusements for the financially speculative.”

JD’s eyes got wider. “Oh,” he said, clearly impressed.

There was a small table by Nathan’s bed, and Ezra drew it close and began cutting his deck of cards on it. Buck and Nathan both watched him. They were interested, but JD was riveted, his brown eyes focused on the flying deck as Ezra talked.

“My associates tell me,” Ezra said conversationally as his hands worked the deck, “that as a result of your...injury...you’ve lost your recollections of our association.”

JD’s eyes widened again, this time in real surprise. “I know you?”

A look darted across Ezra’s face, very fast; only Nathan noticed it. Then the winning smile. “You most certainly do, and might I add your esteem for me knows no bounds.”

JD nodded, of course. Then his face drooped a bit. “I - don’t remember. Sorry.”

“That apology is not accepted,” Ezra said darkly as he tapped the deck on the table. “No, Mr. Dunne, your sad and sorry lot must not be allowed to continue.” He held up one of the cards. “Can you tell me the identity of this card?”

“Uh - ” JD squinted. “It’s the ace of spades.”

“Very good.” Ezra didn’t even look at the card, set it on the table, drew another. “And this one?”

JD’s eyebrows came together in confusion, but he said, “That’s a two of hearts.”

“Excellent.” Ezra slapped that card down too, drew a third. “What am I holding now?”

“Don’t those cuffs get awful dirty?”

Buck and Nathan shared a chuckle. Ezra sighed, “No, Mr. Dunne, you must concentrate on the cards.” He held the card up again.

“Sorry. Jack of clubs.”

“Very well.” Ezra shuffled the cards, set them aside, then moved the table closer to JD’s bed.

“Now...” As JD watched, Ezra moved the cards around on the table, then tapped the center one. “Do you recall which card this is, Mr. Dunne?”

“Oh - ” JD pursed his lips, studied the cards on the rickety table, thought very hard.

Nathan’s eyes went to Ezra’s face as he waited for JD to answer. The gambler looked very intent, and very nervous in a way that was completely unlike Ezra, at least the Ezra Nathan knew. It was very strange.

“Um, the ace of spades?”

Ezra held up the card and smiled warmly. “It is indeed.”

JD smiled at his triumph, but Ezra was quick to put the card back on the table and shuffle it among the other two. He tapped the card on the left.

“Hm,” JD thought. And thought.

“Take your time, Mr. Dunne,” Ezra said in an encouraging voice, “You’ll remember.”

A memory game. Nathan smiled to himself. It’s a memory game.

“Queen of clubs.”

Ezra’s face twitched just a bit as he presented the card. “Close, Mr. Dunne, but we have the jack here, not the queen.”

JD lay back against the pillows and frowned in disappointment.

“But, take heart,” Ezra said lightly as he moved the cards around again, “We can try again. After all, Rome was not built in a day.” He tapped one of the cards.

JD looked at it, somewhat forlornly, as his brows knit with frustration. “Two of...” He paused, licked his lips.

Ezra didn’t move his green eyes from the young man’s face.

JD opened his mouth, closed it again.

Buck was watching with his arms folded, head cocked sideways. Nathan was intrigued.

JD took a deep breath. “Diam - no, wait, it was hearts. Two of hearts.”

Ezra broke into a wide grin as he held up the card. “Very good, Mr. Dunne!”

JD grinned back, his first real smile since that night in the alley, and he looked at Nathan. The healer gave him a reassuring smile, and over JD’s bed Nathan’s eyes met Ezra’s with a question.

Ezra wasn’t ready to answer yet, however, and put the three cards back in the pack and shuffled them. “Yes, Mr. Dunne, excellent work. You’ll be remembering the vast amounts of money you owe me in no time.”

JD grinned at Ezra in mock irritation. “I don’t owe you any money!”

“See?” Ezra gave Nathan and Buck a knowing nod. “Already a distinct improvement.”

Nathan stood up and took the washbasin in his hands, began walking toward the door.

“Come on, Buck,” he said as he passed where Buck was standing at the foot of the bed, one hand on his hip and the other scratching his neck.

“Hm?” Buck glanced at Nathan, then back at Ezra and JD. The youth seemed absorbed in the cards, and was watching Ezra’s movements with focused admiration.

“Come on,” Nathan repeated, and taking Buck’s sleeve pulled the gunslinger out the door.

“We’ll see you later, kid!” Buck called as he left.

“OK,” JD answered, but his eyes were still on the cards.

Nathan smiled as the healer leaned over the balcony railing to dump out the dirty water.

Buck’s voice was confused as he asked, “Nathan, what’s Ezra doin’, showin’ JD card tricks? Is that helpin’ him in some way?”

Nathan nodded as they walked across the wide balcony toward the stairs. “It’ll help JD with his memory, maybe get some of it back. Maybe all of it, dependin.”

“Huh,” Buck shook his head, followed Nathan. “How’d Ezra know that stuff?”

“Beats me,” Nathan responded. “But I’m sure glad he does. It’ll help JD out an awful lot.”

“Good,” Buck breathed as they headed for the bottom stairs and the water barrel. “But I don’t care how much fancy stuff he knows. If he turns that boy into a card sharp, I’m gonna whop him right into next week.”

  
  


Mary was busy sorting type, and so didn’t know anyone had come into her office until she heard the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat. Then she looked up from her wooden boxes and squinted into the sunlight, which was streaming through the open door.

It was Mr. Conklin.

“Good morning, Mrs. Travis,” he said cheerfully, tipping his curl-brimmed hat.

“Oh.” Mary wiped her ink-stained hands on her apron, walked around the table. “Good morning, Mr. Conklin. How are you today?”

“Fine!” the man crowed, giving Mary a broad smile as he grasped one lapel proudly. “Just fine.”

_He’s certainly acting strangely._ Then Mary’s eyes traveled to where Mr. Conklin was running his hand up and down his lapel, trying to get her to notice something on his lapel.

A sheriff’s badge.

Mary froze, and her mouth dropped open. She hoped she didn’t look too alarmed, it might be embarrassing, but - “Mr. Conklin, are you - ”

“Am I the sheriff? Yes, ma’am!” Conklin almost bounced, he looked so happy. “Temporary, of course. Just till the judge gets back.”

“I...see.” Mary suddenly couldn’t breathe, and quickly stepped past the man to the walkway outside.

Conklin followed her, came to stand next to her as she gasped in the morning sunshine.

After taking a few deep breaths, Mary turned to Mr. Conklin and said, “Mr. Conklin, are you sure about this? This town is dangerous, and - ”

“It certainly is!” Conklin snapped. “Or, it was. Those outlaw guns roaming the streets. I knew it was only a matter of time before they showed their true colors. And, thank God, they have. So...” He leaned back, put his hand back over that shiny star. “We called a meeting yesterday, and I was selected sheriff pro tem.”

“Hm.” Mary folded her arms, looked at Conklin sternly. “And why wasn’t I asked to attend this meeting?”

“Oh. Er.” Conklin’s eyes left Mary’s, nervous now, darting up and down the street. “Well...well, I understand your situation, Mrs. Travis, after all, Stephen was a good husband to you. And we’re all aware of how...lonely women in your situation get, how some slick smooth-talker can get a girl so mixed up she don’t know whether she’s coming or going.”

Mary’s eyes blazed as she unfolded her arms and put them on her hips. “Excuse me?”

Conklin sighed, gave up. “It ain’t your fault, Mrs. Travis! These men make their livin’ preying on the weak and the susceptible. We figured you’d be better off if you just let us handle this.”

Mary glared. “Mr. Conklin, when my husband died he didn’t take my mind with him. I’m a contributing citizen of this town, and I demand that my voice be heard.”

“And it will be,” Conklin said in a patronizing tone, backing away from Mary a step, but still not looking at her. “Later, after we rid the town of those murderers, you can say anything you want.”

Rid the town? “Mr. Conklin, my father-in-law hired those men. You can’t just turn them away without his consent.”

“But he don’t know!” Conklin spat defensively. “He don’t know Larabee got drunk and beat that boy senseless. He don’t know the rest of ‘em helped him run off before he could be brought to justice. Now you know Orin, Mrs. Travis. He’d do the same thing, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t just let Larabee go free!”

Mary felt an odd jump at the mention of Chris’ crime, felt that need to defend him, but quelled it. “Rest assured, Mr. Conklin, that if Mr. Larabee is responsible for - for this, Orin will see that he’s punished. But the other men had nothing to do with it, and I’m sure he’ll leave them alone.”

Mr. Conklin gave Mary an almost pitying look. “Now, see, that’s just what I mean, Mrs. Travis. They turn those eyes on you and smile and you’re just putty in their hands.”

It was said in a calm, reasoning tone, like you’d use on a child, and Mary wanted to scream and swat Mr. Conklin, very badly. But no, keep control. “Mr. Conklin - “

“No, it’s all right, don’t you worry,” Conklin said in a condescending voice, “I’ll keep an eye on things until Orin arrives, and then we’ll see who’s right.”

“And in the meantime?” Mary crossed her arms again, no longer worried that Conklin would see how much she was hating him at this moment. “Are you going to run Mr. Tanner and the others out on a rail?”

Conklin actually seemed to be considering this, then shook his head. “They don’t bother me, I won’t bother them. But they’d better just stay out of my way. I know their kind, and I know how sick this town is of being humiliated by having riffraff posing as the law. They go interferin’ with my duties, and there’ll be hell to pay. I can promise you that!”

Mary thought of Conklin, trying to arrest some criminal, and resisting Buck’s or Josiah’s attempts at assistance. She tried not to smile.

“Hey, Conklin!”

A voice up the street made Mary and Conklin both turn toward the jail. A man Conklin’s age was waving to him from the porch.

Conklin returned the wave jauntily. “Ah, I have to go, Mrs. Travis. My deputy needs me.”

“Your deputy?” Mary blinked at the waving figure. “That man is your deputy?”

“You have a problem with that?” Conklin asked smugly.

“That’s Gerald Townsend, isn’t it? Don’t you two hate each other?”

“Oh - well, not anymore!” Conklin backed up and tipped his hat. “We may disagree on some issues, but on this one I assure you, we’re on the same side. Good day, Mrs. Travis.”

He turned on his heel and strolled away, and Mary slapped a hand to her forehead and thought she was going mad. Conklin was the sheriff, she was a dreamy-eyed idiot, and mortal enemies were banding together to drive her father-in-law’s hired peacekeepers out of town. She knew she was going mad.

Or the town was. Either way, it was going to be rough until Orin arrived.

Mary’s eyes traveled down the street, watched Conklin greet Townsend with a huge handshake and a slap on the arm. Then she couldn’t take it anymore and went back inside.

  
  


Ezra leaned back and shuffled his cards in the golden afternoon sun, pausing after a moment to cast a sly look in JD’s direction.

_The boy certainly has perseverance._ They’d played a number of different card games, mostly variations on the one he’d started with, but they had all held JD’s attention, and Ezra felt that maybe - just maybe - it was helping.

But it looked like it would be time to stop soon. JD had already stifled a half-dozen yawns, and was currently stifling another one. With a soft snap Ezra struck the bottom of the deck of cards on the table and said, “Now then, Mr. Dunne, it seems we have exhausted your brain for the moment. Perhaps it’s time for you to get some rest.”

JD had propped himself a bit on his good arm, and now leaned back against the stacked-up pillows with a petulant look. “I’m not that tired.”

Ezra smiled and tucked the cards into his pocket. “Now, Mr. Dunne, I am the only one allowed to play games here. Were Mr. Jackson to apprehend me keeping you from getting your proper rest, he’d have me horsewhipped. And I’d much rather have you angry at me than him.”

JD tried to keep his eyes open, frowned at Ezra. “You sure do use a lot of big words. You sure you’re not a politician or something?”

Ezra chuckled. “My boy, that’s one profession even I would not stoop to.”

JD nestled into the covers and closed his eyes. “Wish my mama would get back.”

Ezra winced, paused as he watched that beaten face settle into slumber. He didn’t know what to say.

After a moment JD opened his eyes and muttered, “Tarnation.”

Ezra blinked at him, “What is it?”

“I don’t think I locked the stable door last night,” JD said in irritation, and started to sit up. “It’ll be my hide if anybody finds out.”

“Uh - ” Ezra noticed JD was starting to climb out of the bed, stood up. “Now Mr. Dunne, I’ve been told you’re not to leave - ”

“Oh, I know all that.” JD hefted himself to the side of the bed. “But I forget to lock that door one more time and I’ll get skinned for sure.”

Ezra wasn’t quite sure what to do. A quick glance toward the door notified him that Nathan wasn’t coming back at that moment, and JD was starting to stand, shakily, seemingly oblivious of his injuries.

“Now, Mr. Dunne,” Ezra said in his most severe voice, hurrying to the injured youth’s side. “I’m under strictest orders not to let you out of that bed, and - ”

JD made an impatient noise and glared at Ezra, one hand on the iron railing at the foot of the bed. “Oh, that Nathan, what does he know! I saw a guy once, get thrown right over a horse’s head, and he was up the very next - ”

At that moment JD tried to move, and fell.

Ezra jumped forward and caught him around the middle, tried not to hold too firmly onto the bruised ribs he had to wrap his arms around to keep JD from hitting the floor. JD cried out in pain and alarm, and clutched Ezra as he lowered the injured boy to the floor.

“Oh my God,” JD gasped as soon as Ezra had him seated. He was pale, and his eyes were wide as they searched Ezra’s face. “I forgot. I can’t walk anymore, can I? I mean, I - I - ”

Ezra was fighting his own panic. “Did you injure yourself? Mr. Jackson left instructions...”

But JD wasn’t listening. He was staring, staring at his legs, stretched out before him, still in their bloodstained cotton.

“I can’t walk,” he said in a breathless whisper, then winced, as if trying to remember something. His good hand went to his head, those black stitches, and he shook his head and whispered, “Oh, my God.”

“Now, take it easy, Mr. Dunne.” Ezra tried his best, but he knew he wasn’t very good at consolation. “It’s not as black as it - ”

“No, you don’t understand.” JD turned horrified eyes to Ezra. “I can’t work if I can’t...Mama’s sick, she’s counting on me. I’ve seen...I’ve seen those men, from the home? You know the one I mean?”

Ezra felt himself go numb, tried not to show it, and nodded.

“I can’t be like that,” JD’s face was slack with denial, “I can’t. You said I’d get my memory back. Is this going to come back too? I mean - I can move them, I’m not crippled. Am I?”

Ezra fought the vertigo of fear he was experiencing, stood up and took JD’s good arm. “Come on, Mr. Dunne. I’ve got to get you back into bed.”

JD paused, then muttered, “I can do it myself,” and tried to raise himself by grabbing the railing and pulling on it.

“You’ll sprain your arm,” Ezra said lightly, and tugged on JD’s arm, “Let me - ”

“I said I can do it myself!” JD screamed suddenly, loudly, in such a violent voice that Ezra almost jumped back. JD shook him off and was glaring at him, eyes full of fire and shame, face red with anger, and in that instant Ezra realized that JD was scared, scared beyond comprehension.

He wanted to fight it. And Ezra decided to let him.

The room was quiet for a few moments, then JD continued to pull himself back onto the bed. Ezra watched him, and as he did so he thought of Chris, somewhere out in the desert, where he couldn’t see JD’s frightened face, couldn’t hear his frustrated cries as he tried to perform the simple act of getting back into bed.

Ezra had tried not to think about the reality of JD being an invalid for the rest of his life, but now he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He thought about it as he watched the boy finally gain the bed, and collapse into it, sweating and panting. He thought about it as he pulled the sheets back up, and mixed some of Nathan’s herbal tonics so JD could get some sleep. And he thought about as he sat by the wounded boy’s bedside as JD drifted off, and idly flipped his cards.

Ezra thought about what Chris had done. And hated him for it.

  
  


“The minstrel boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you will find him.

His father’s sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.

‘Land of song,’ said the warrior bard,

Though all the world betrays thee,

One sword at least thy right shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!”

Chris looked over at Darcy Thomas as the last notes of his song mingled with the sound of their horses’ hooves on the tree-lined path, then faded into the late-morning sky. “Don’t your people have any songs that aren’t about folks dying?”

Darcy gave Chris a sad smile as their horses meandered through the shading brush. “Not any good ones.”

Chris shook his head, bent over slightly as they passed through some low-hanging branches. He was marking time, riding with Darcy back to Four Corners. They were taking their time, which was fine, but even as they inched closer Chris felt the burden of his guilt weigh heavier, as if it were a physical thing pushing him away from the town. His hands ached, as if themselves reliving the night when Chris had beaten JD, and several times he considered making excuses to Darcy and turning around. Four Corners had nothing but bad memories for Chris now, and he wanted very badly to never see it again.

But he had to know, before he left the earth. He’d hang on the outskirts, lurk in the hills like an outlaw, and when he’d gotten Darcy to tell him how JD was, what was happening, about Mary, then he’d go, and nobody would ever suffer from his demons again. Including himself.

Darcy sat back in the saddle and took a deep breath. “We Irish have made poetry out of suffering. But ye should listen closer, Chris. They’re not really about death.”

“Oh, really?” Chris arched an eyebrow. “I’ve been ridin’ with you since sunrise, and all you’ve been singin’ about are bandits and outlaws and men gettin’ hung. Sounds like death to me.”

“Ah, to the untrained ear perhaps,” Darcy commented as they guided their horses around a bend. “But we know - those of us who’ve suffered for Ireland know they’re about honor, and courage, and never lettin’ the bastards win. Life is more than just breath and body; it’s doin’ what’s right, fightin’ for what you believe in, even if it means ye die. Because to do any less isn’t livin’ at all.”

Chris pondered this, then looked down at his torn hands. After a moment he looked back up and said, “You never told me why they arrested you. The English. Mind if I ask?”

“Oh, not at all,” Darcy replied easily, “It was back in sixty-seven. Ireland had been trying to separate from England for many years, but they wouldn’t budge. They’d been hangin’ and jailin’ us for centuries, and didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. Well, some of us got tired of watchin’ our women and children starve, so we got up a group to try and force the English out.”

Chris nodded. He’d remembered hearing stories about that subject from Irishmen he knew during the war. “The Young Ireland movement?”

Darcy swung his head over, gave Chris a sad smile, then turned his eyes back to the road. “That was one of ‘em. I was pretty young meself then, scarce twenty. Reddie and me had only been together two years, and Katie was still in swaddling clothes. I figured I’d be damned if Katie had to grow up bound to the English. Reddie thought me friends were too hotheaded to do right by Ireland, but I was full of piss and vinegar, and didn’t give it a second thought. It was wrong, what the English were doin’, and I figured any course that would set it right again had to be worth tryin’ out.”

Chris nodded a little, peered at the dusty land around them.

Darcy took another deep breath. “Well, me friends and I, we started gettin’ up arms for a rebellion, but the English found us out. They rounded us up. I barely had time to say goodbye to me wife and daughter before...” He trailed off, gazed into the morning sky a moment. “Five years is a long time, but ye don’t know how long till you’ve spent it doin’ naught but starin’ at the inside of a prison wall.”

Chris heard the melancholy timbre in Darcy’s voice, remembered his own incarceration. He had been imprisoned only ten days, but it had seemed like eternity. And five years...five years ago Sarah and Adam were still alive. “Then what happened?”

Darcy blinked, looked down at his hands, fiddled with the bridle. “When they let me out, I vowed revenge. They’d killed me friends, enslaved me country. No red-blooded Irishman would stand for such injustice. I knew Reddie wouldn’t like it, but...then I came home and found out she and Katie were dead.”

So leaden, those words. Darcy’s eyes looked haunted as he glared at the trail ahead. “Truth be told, I don’t remember much about that time. I got stinkin’ drunk every night, went after anyone who came near. Reddie’s family disowned me, called me a radical. I had nothin’ left, nothin’, but memories and a heart so black I thought it would be a mercy to die. I loved my country, but I knew if I stayed there I’d end up shot or hung, so I jumped the next ship, didn’t even ask where it was goin’.”

“And ended up here,” Chris said, thinking their stories weren’t too dissimilar.

“After a few other adventures, yes,” Darcy admitted, looking around the vast land around them. After a pause, he cast chagrined eyes in Chris’ direction and said, “Now that ye’ve heard my story, I’m hopin’ ye won’t think less of a man who’s put more poor bastards in the ground then he’d like to remember.”

Chris shook his head, and thanked God Darcy didn’t know.

“It’s the anger,” Darcy said philosophically, nodding to himself. “That’s what does it. I must have torn apart every pub from one end of Ireland to the other, lookin’ fer peace. And didn’t find it. I’d get drunk, pick on total strangers, just to get the anger out. But there was always more waitin’.”

Chris swallowed hard, felt again that heady rush, flinging JD into the wall, the euphoria of bloody victory over the demons who were, in reality, laughing at him. Clearing his throat, he asked, “So how’d you get rid of it?”

“Oh, I didn’t,” Darcy said lightly. “Not all of it. I simply channeled it toward more worthwhile pursuits than knockin’ mens’ heads together. Not that I don’t miss it every once in a while.”

Chris smiled in a ghostly way, paused and thought. “So what’s waiting for you in Four Corners?”

Darcy reached up, scratched his cheek. “Oh, merely a stop in me wanderin’s. Heard it was a very lively town.”

Chris shrugged. “Maybe lively in all the wrong ways.”

“Ah, but that’s the way that sends me blood singin’. Just like home.” Darcy glanced at Chris’ face. “Seems to me I heard your name and the town’s in the same breath. That you had somethin’ to do with keepin’ the peace there.”

Chris’ head ducked down. “Did.”

Darcy nodded, left the question unspoken.

Chris brought his head up again. “I did once, but that’s through now. You’ll probably hear about it, if you haven’t already. You know that anger you were talkin’ about?”

Darcy looked Chris up and down, nodded.

“Well, it finished me in that town. Finished me so’s I can’t ride in there with you, or show my face there, ever.”

They topped a small rise of low trees and scrub brush, and both men stopped their horses and took in the view. The sun was fast rising now, casting a kaleidoscope of color across the plains in front of them.

Chris took a breath in, sighed it out, and cast his eyes over the plains. “What I done I can’t make right. But I’d sure appreciate it if you could ask some questions for me, before I head back out.”

The wind blew, cool and gentle on the low hill. Darcy looked across the plain, then back at Chris and asked in a low voice, “That bad, was it?”

Chris’ heart tightened, and he ran one injured hand over his left leg. “Yeah. It was bad.”

A pause. A minute passed, two, and the breeze still blew its quiet song through the trees around them.

Then Darcy spoke. “After Reddie died I sank into a pit, a pit I thought I’d never want to climb out of. Then one day a friend of mine said to me, don’t be foolin’ yerself. Ye get drunk and beat up half of Dublin, but it’s not you pushin’ yer fists into people’s faces. Ye scream bloody murder against the English, but ye let ‘em use yer body every time ye give up and crawl into a pint of ale. It’s not you fightin’, Darcy. It’s them, with yer permission. They’re inside ye, in yer head, and ye get drunk and let ‘em bash people bloody. Yer lettin’ em, Darcy. And ye’re too good a man for that.”

Still the breezes blew, tousling Chris’ hair and feeling springlike against his face. He thought of that night, the bleary memories of Fowler, Fowler’s man, the Warden. All that rage he held, all the pain and frustration that he had flung at the defenseless boy he was beating. Uncontrolled. Unchecked. It was terrifying, how good it felt to beat someone.

“Sounds like your friend was speaking from experience.” Chris said in a strained voice.

Darcy cocked his head. “Aye, I suppose he was. He was recoverin’ from a couple of bruised ribs at the time. And I gave ‘em to him. And still he forgave me. So I figured the least I could do was listen.”

Silence. Only the sounds of the desert for a moment.

Then Darcy spoke again. “I hardly know ye, Chris Larabee, but I can see ye’re a good man. Whatever ye’ve done, ye’ll be surprised at what can be forgiven if ye’re willin’ to pay the price.”

Chris knew Darcy was trying to help, but...he shook his head, the memories coming back, Buck’s eyes, the church in the candlelight, Josiah’s words, _he got slammed into that wall pretty hard._ “Ain’t no price I can pay to make up for it. All I can do is make sure it don’t happen again.”

Darcy eyed him, his face an open expression of sympathy. “Well, there’s more than one way of doin’ that. I should know, I tried me own hand at most of ‘em. But I only found one way that truly worked.”

Chris squinted at him. “What’s that?”

Darcy turned a smile on him. “Stay alive. Don’t let the bastards win. And make sure tomorrow isn’t worse fer the people that are countin’ on ye.”

Darcy turned his gaze to the bright landscape that bloomed around them and then gently urged his horse forward. Chris paused a moment, thinking, then followed him into the morning sun.

  
  


As Buck and Nathan walked easily down the sunlit boardwalks of Four Corners, Buck peered up at the sun and grunted.

“Must be almost two,” he commented. “Reckon we better get back to JD?”

Nathan took a puff on the cigar he was smoking and nodded. “Ezra’s prob’ly wore him out by now.”

“Who’d have figured,” Buck said as Nathan waved him in the direction of the general store, “that Ezra would be interested in helpin’ JD out? From what I know of the man, it don’t make sense.”

Nathan tilted his head, looked both ways, then crossed the street. “Who knows? I ain’t gonna question it. Leastways, it gives the boy somebody new to look at.”

Buck nodded. “So, Nathan, you think that maybe JD’s gonna be all right? I mean, he seems better today, don’t he?”

There was a forlornly hopeful tone in Buck’s voice, a yearning against reality, that Nathan hated to shatter. “Yeah, a bit. But he’s got a long way to go, Buck.”

“Well, I know that,” Buck said as they stepped up to the boardwalk on the other side of the street, “But he’ll get his memory back, an’ the other problems he got, they’ll get better, and then, well, it’ll be just like old times then, won’t it?”

Old times. The old times of three days ago, before this all happened. Nathan shook his head. “I hope so , Buck. But things are mighty changed.”

Buck tilted his head, and Nathan glanced at his eyes. Buck hadn’t mentioned Chris’ name, not brought up the subject of his guilt or return, since the day before, and Nathan knew without having to ask that the only reason Buck’s mood was any lighter today was that for him, Chris Larabee simply didn’t exist anymore. Nathan - all of them - had been careful not to bring up his name around Buck, not sure how the gunslinger would react. Maybe someday, when this was all over, Josiah would have a talk with him. Nathan hoped so, because in Buck’s eyes was a wealth of hurt and betrayal and anguish that had to be tapped. Had to, or he would burst as Chris had.

But not now. Now, today, Buck was in a better mood, about halfway to himself again, and for the moment at least that was good, because that was what JD needed. So Nathan let it go, and together the two men walked into the general store.

There were a few other customers about, but no one waiting at the counter. Nathan walked up to it, smiled at the older woman who ran the place.

“Good afternoon, Nathan,” the woman said, giving him a pleasant smile. “How’s Mr. Dunne doing?”

“Better, thank you, ma’am.” Nathan smiled. “I need some more of that camomile, if you got any.”

The woman nodded, turned to some wooden canisters behind her. “Such a shame, he was a nice young man. Sometimes I simply can’t believe the depths some people will stoop to.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nathan said automatically. He hadn’t really been listening, because he’d been looking around the store, and noticed something.

People were glaring at them. Well, not him so much, but Buck. The other man hadn’t noticed yet, was studying something in a glass case, but two women in the corner were whispering to each other and pointing at him, shaking their heads. Another man near the door gave Buck a dirty look before heading out into the street. And a young couple near the pickle barrels was eyeing him almost fearfully, the thin woman grasping her husband’s arm with a frankly scared look on her face.

_What the hell?_ Then the store owner returned and said, “Here you go, Nathan. Fifteen cents.”

“Hm.” Nathan dug around in his pockets.

Suddenly the woman leaned forward and whispered, “Of course, it’s none of my business, but you really ought to stop associating yourself with those men, Nathan. You’re too fine a man to hang around such riffraff, especially after what happened to Mr. Dunne.”

Nathan blinked, looked at her. “Um - well, thanks for the concern, ma’am, but - ”

“Well,” the woman continued, casting conspiratorial eyes at Buck, whose back was to them. “Like I said, it’s none of my business, but now that Mr. Conklin is the sheriff he told me those men won’t even be welcome here much longer, and I’d hate to see you mixed up in any...well, any unpleasantness should they be forced to leave.”

Nathan fished the money out, put it on the counter without looking at it. ‘Did you say Conklin is the sheriff?”  
“Oh, didn’t you know?” The woman shook her head. “The town fathers elected him last night. He - might not be much, but you just can’t trust these men, Nathan! Mr. Dunne did, and look where he’s at now.” She paused, and her eyebrows arched in gossipy anxiety. “Is it true he’s turned idiot?”

Nathan felt himself start to get angry, but checked it. “No, ma’am, JD’s gonna be fine, he’s not - ”

“Well, that’s a relief,” the woman replied, stabbing Buck with another glare. “Because I wouldn’t put it past those brutes to kill a man for lookin’ at ‘em cross-eyed, and I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

Nathan tried not to let his annoyance show, reached out for the block of tea. “Well, thank you for the tea, ma’am. But you’re wrong about these men. I been with ‘em a long time, and you’re wrong.”

The woman blinked, as if she wasn’t expecting an argument. She leaned back a bit, and her expression changed to one of covert suspicion. Her voice went from cozy warmth to brittle pique, all in a flash. “Well - if you say so, Nathan.” Her eyes flashed to Buck, who was eyeing her now with an uncertain look. “Have a good afternoon.”

Nathan backed up a few steps, nodded to the woman, then making sure Buck was with him almost ran out of the store.

“Was it me,” Buck said as soon as they were on the sidewalk, “or was it gettin’ cold in there?”

Nathan scarcely heard him. He looked up and down the street. “I’m goin’ back to JD. You better go get Josiah and Vin, and meet me back at my place.”

“Huh?” Buck put his hands on his hips. “Why?”

Nathan shook his head in bewilderment. “That woman done told me. Conklin got hisself voted in as sheriff.”

Buck’s face fell, then crinkled in disbelief. “Aw, crap.”

Nathan’s eyes darted among the people walking around them. He hated the paranoid feeling he was getting, but... he licked his lips. Suddenly everyone looked hostile. “If there’s any trouble, this could go down mighty hard. Best we be prepared for it.”

“Right.” Buck said, and trotted off down the street toward the church.

Nathan watched him go, and tried not to think about what would happen if his newest fears became reality. Then he turned and trotted just as quickly back to JD.

  
  


Concho Charles leaned against a post outside the saloon and casually lit a cheroot, blowing its white-grey smoke into the afternoon sunshine. Behind him, another man leaned against the saloon window, a scruffy-looking miscreant who looked at Concho with an expectant air.

After a few minutes the saloon doors opened, and Durning came out, leaning against the post right next to Concho. He struck a match against his shoe and lit a cigar of his own.

Concho looked at him. “You got the time?”

Durning nodded, took out his pocket watch, leaned toward Concho.

Concho said, “Midnight, next to the livery. Don’t be late.”

Durning’s eyes flicked to him, and he said, “It’s about two.” In a lower voice he said, “Got it.”

Concho searched the boardwalk around them. It was empty, so he said, “I’m about to make you and your friends rich men. I hope you appreciate it enough to not bungle this.”

Durning’s eyes burned with avarice. “They’re not my friends. We’re just stuck here together. But you can count on me.”

Concho smiled. “I knew I could.”

Durning frowned suddenly. “You sure about this?”

Concho’s smile grew slicker. “Chaos, my friend. And it’s gotten worse. They’ll never notice us.”

Durning smiled back, a weasel’s smile. “Great. I’m lookin’ forward to this.”

Concho leaned back against the post, puffed his cheroot, and didn’t look at Durning again. After a moment Durning turned and went back into the saloon, puffing on his cigar with an air of confidence.

Concho watched the man go, shook his head in disgust. The scruffy-looking man sauntered up to him and growled, “That’s our break-in man? You’re crazy.”

“Quiet, Torres,” Concho answered in silky tones. “He’ll do. I have a message for you to take to the boys.”

Torres didn’t look convinced, kept looking after Durning. “What is it?”

Concho looked across the street, noticed one of the town’s law going by, the moustached one. He was hurrying, looked worried. In his wake, Concho noticed people were staring at him and scowling.

Concho paused, took a drag on the cheroot, blew out his words in a trail of white smoke.

“Tell them the door is about to open.” he said to Torres with a smile, watching the gunslinger disappear into the sunshine, “And I want them to be ready.”

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

As the sun began its downward journey, six tense men gathered on Nathan’s porch.

Nathan had arrived first, somewhat surprised to find JD asleep and Ezra sitting pensively by his bedside, flipping a deck of cards through his fingers and gazing at the boy with a thoughtful expression. When Ezra related what had happened earlier, Nathan could offer no more comfort than to say, sometimes he’d seen men with JD’s injuries bounce back, and be just fine. And it’s not so bad that JD’s mad about it. He might just be mad enough to make those legs walk again, you know how he likes to show off. Ezra nodded, but it was in the gambler’s green eyes. He was not entirely convinced.

JD was still asleep when Buck and Josiah arrived. Buck went straight to JD’s side, sat down in the chair that had become his second home, told them to get him when Vin got there. Josiah stayed out on the porch, out of Buck’s earshot, and as Nathan lit a cigar asked in a low voice, “How’s it lookin’, doc?”

Nathan eyed Josiah carefully, glanced to see Ezra stretching his legs on the other side of the balcony. Then he let his shoulders droop and shook his head. “His memory might come back, but...I don’t know what to do about the other problem.”

Josiah turned a concerned eye to the half-open door, the pool of sunlight inside. “He’s a fighter.”

Nathan nodded, but his expression was bitter. “He’s gonna need every ounce of it to fight what’s wrong with him. At least he don’t know it was Chris that done it.”

The grey eyes were on him, dark and troubled. “Think he’ll ever remember?”

Nathan took a drag on the cigar, blew it out. “Maybe not. I’ve seen folks, like in the war, they never remember the shell that took off their arm, or the cannonball that took off their legs. Sometimes the mind just blocks out what it can’t handle.”

Josiah’s eyes traveled to the door again. “Then it’s a blessing if JD never remembers what Chris did to him. I doubt Chris will ever forget.”

“Yeah, well, why should he?” Nathan said angrily, leaning his elbows on the railing. “I wish he was here, instead of runnin’. I’d make him change those bandages myself, and he’d be sober when he did it too, so’s he got nothin’ blocking his memory. I don’t want him to ever forget what he done to that boy.”

Josiah listened, looked at his hands as he leaned next to Nathan. “I hear you, doc. But you didn’t see Chris’ eyes that night in the church. There’s no doubt in my mind he went out seeking repentance, not escape. And I may be alone in this, but I hope he finds it.”

“Yeah, well...” Nathan took another drag, a long one, and blew the smoke out, said nothing for a minute. Then, still gazing out on the street he said in a low voice, “Repentant or not, he gets around me he better be ready to pay. Cause I seen that poor boy’s ribs too many times to let it go.”

Josiah reached out, patted Nathan’s arm.

But Nathan wasn’t finished. His eyes turning hard he said, “I keep thinkin’, it’s like when I was a boy on the plantation. One of us would try to run, or mouth off, or not shine the carriage up just right, and there’d be a whippin’. My mama didn’t want me to watch, but I had to, cause I couldn’t figure it out.” He turned to Josiah then, eyes suddenly childlike and full of bewilderment. “I’d stand there thinkin’, the man’s cryin’ out. The white man whippin’ him, he’s got to know it hurts. He’s got to, and he keeps doin’ it. And I’d ask my mama, why’s he do that to that man if he knows it hurts?”

Nathan paused, took another drag, and when he looked back at Josiah his eyes were brittle, full of old anger. “I ‘m really hopin’ Chris comes back, cause I got questions for him. Questions I been meanin’ to ask somebody all my life. Questions like, how come you can’t stop it? You know it ain’t right, and you let it go on. You know you’re hurtin’ folks, how can you not care? You gave up the power to change things, and now just look at what’s come out of it. How could you?”

They were half-yelled, even in Nathan’s low tones. There was nothing Josiah could say.

Nathan backed up a step, took another drag, let it drift out over the streets and nodded to himself. “Yeah, that’ s the one question I got, and it ain’t never gonna get answered. How could you.”

Josiah peered down at the floorboards, knew that any attempt at sympathy would be an insult. So he remained silent, and Nathan went back to smoking his cigar.

A minute later Vin walked up the stairs, still wiping sleep out of his eyes.

“Buck told me we got trouble,” he said simply as Josiah, Nathan, and Ezra gathered around him. He tipped his head toward the door. “How’s JD?”

“Sleepin’,” Nathan responded as the door behind him opened partially and Buck came out, leaning against the doorframe.

Vin nodded, then looked at Nathan with a bewildered expression. “What’s this I hear about Conklin gettin’ voted in as sheriff?”

Nathan made a face, but it was Ezra who answered as he watched the cards in his hands. “Yes, indeed. It seems being able to actually defend oneself and intimidate people is not a prerequisite for being the constabulary in this town.”

“So it’s true?” Vin asked, and he looked more than a little worried.  
Nathan nodded. “I s’pose it is. Question is, what does that mean for us?”

“More time to fix up the church,” Josiah said with a quiet smile.

Ezra grinned at him and added, “I might actually be able to enjoy a poker game without worrying about getting shot at.”

Vin wasn’t smiling. “If there’s any trouble between now and when the judge gets back, Conklin won’t be able to handle it.”

“And that is our business how?” Ezra asked lightly. “If the good people of this fair city do not see fit to accept our further services, I for one do not feel a pressing need to render them. I do not go where I am not wanted.”

“Lot of nervous people in this town,” Vin said quietly with the same grieved expression. “Their blood’s up, but it won’t last. They need protectin’.”

“And they have it,” Ezra said sarcastically, flipping the cards in his manicured hands. “In the person of Mr. Conklin, lion of Four Corners. We’ve been replaced; what else is there to say?”

Josiah was shaking his head. “We’ve got a bunch of scared people here who don’t know what they’re doing. When the outlaws start coming, it will be like the plagues of Egypt. This place will be a ghost town in a month.”

Ezra’s eyes never left the cards. “Sounds like a good time to raise our fees.”

The sound of someone coming up the stairs made everyone pause, and Josiah leaned over the railing just as Mary appeared, looking as if she hadn’t slept in a year.

“Ma’am,” Vin said, touching his hat. The others followed suit, but Mary barely acknowledged them.

“Gentlemen,” She said, in almost pleading tones, “I - I know I’m probably interrupting, but ... well, I trust you’ve heard about what happened.”

“You mean Mr. Conklin proclaiming himself sole lawkeeper of the known territory?” Ezra asked with a smile.

Mary let out an exasperated sigh and clutched her skirts. “I just wanted you to know, I had nothing to do with it. It’s - well, it’s absurd! And I’m sure Orin will set things right just as soon as he arrives.” So please don’t go, her tone said, but Mary stopped before those words left her lips, and looked around her in pleading dismay.

Nathan looked at the others, then back at Mary. “We know you ain’t involved, ma’am. We’re just tryin’ to figure out what’ s best to do.”

“Do? Well - ” Mary seemed to be breathing very fast. “Well, it’s simple, really, just go about your business, and when Orin arrives day after tomorrow he’ll talk to Mr. Conklin and everything will be back to the way it was.”

“Except the people don’t want it the way it was,” Josiah pointed out. “Pardon me, Mrs. Travis, but I’m not sure we’re welcome here anymore.”

Buck was leaning back, looking into the room, and Mary’s eyes flew to him for a moment as she sputtered, “Well, of course you - ” She paused, closed her mouth, read the truth in Josiah’s eyes, and Nathan’s, as the preacher shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Travis,” Josiah said. “But if people won’t accept our help, we can’t give it.”

Mary’s face was one of shock, and she looked around the group in amazement. “Well, you’re - you’re not just going to give up! What about JD? You’re not just going to abandon him, are you?”

“Now, no one said they were leavin’, Miz Travis,” Nathan said, raising his hands in a calming gesture. “Leastways, I ain’t goin’ nowhere, cause this is my home. But if folks is scared of us, an’ thinkin’ we’re the enemy, well...” He paused, shrugged with a helpless look on his face. “What can we do?”

Mary opened her mouth, closed it again, cast her eyes once again on the men around her. She had seldom felt so helpless in her whole life.

“Mrs. Travis?”

Vin’s voice. Mary looked at him.

“If there’s trouble - I mean real trouble - can Conklin handle himself at all?”

Mary heaved a breath in, shook her head and let it out again. “I don’t think so.”

Vin nodded. “Well, I can’t stand by and watch a man get himself murdered just cause he’s got the brains of a jackrabbit. I reckon you got my gun for a little while yet.”

Mary gave him a small, appreciative smile.

“Like I said,” Nathan remarked around his cigar smoke. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Mary looked at Ezra, who gave her a cockeyed smile before going back to flipping his cards.

“Dear Lord,” he muttered. “If mother ever hears of this, I’ll be completely disowned.”

“We’ll keep watch, Mary,” Josiah said evenly, looking at her with his sad eyes. “But Conklin has legal authority. We cross him, we’ll end up in jail. And we can’t help anybody from there.”

“I know,” Mary said tiredly, running one hand across her forehead. “I just - I just needed to know that there was someone I could count on. It’s - getting a little frightening.”

Josiah gave her a reassuring smile. It felt warm to her, and Mary wondered how he did it. Maybe even he didn’t know.

“So we agreed?” Vin said, casting his blue eyes around the group. “We keep an eye out. We see anything, we tell Conklin, but we stay out of it till it’s obvious he needs our help. Then I don’t reckon even he’s gonna turn his nose up at it. All right?”

There were general nods, weary and accepting. Mary glanced around the cluster on the balcony, thought how strange it was that everyone was there except Chris. And yet - Vin had taken quiet command, and they were listening to him. She felt as if the hole Chris had left had narrowed, and was closing. They were all accepting the unspoken truth that they all knew: Chris was no longer their leader. Seven had become six.

Or five, Mary thought suddenly, her eyes flicking to the door to where JD still lay, amnesiac and unable to walk. But no - she wasn’t ready to think about that possibility yet. Not yet.

The men seemed to drift apart then, except for Buck, who turned to go back into the room. Mary approached him and said, “Mr. Wilmington?”

Buck turned back to her, sad and tired. “Ma’am?”

She paused, then said, “I - I didn’t hear your response. How do you feel about all this?”

Buck looked at her, pursed his lips. Mary saw the tremendous hurt in his eyes, that had been there for three straight days, and Mary realized she couldn’t remember what he had looked like before. He leaned against the doorpost, cast a look at the sleeping figure in the bed, then looked at Mary with such sorrow, fear and hatred mixed in his blue eyes that she felt a horrible shock in her stomach. She waited.

Buck cleared his throat and said in a raw voice, “I think the whole situation stinks. You’ll excuse me, ma’am.”

And went into Nathan’s room, closing the door.

  
  


** dreaming.

A dark room, one lamp. Holding hands, don’t suffer anymore, mama. I’ll be all right. Her hand getting colder, colder, oh, no, oh, please, no -

She’s gone.

People in black, whispers, a cold day. Some money, but not enough, and scared, so scared, all alone now.

What can i do?

Running, running, get away that’s all. A train, going west, nothing for me here anymore. It’s okay, she understands. I can’t have college but I can have this.

I can have this.

A stagecoach, never rode in one before. Hot, dusty, in my mouth. They’re staring but I don’t care. Gunshots. Is that what they sound like? Oh my gosh, here, here, get off here, don’ t even wait for it to slow down just jump jump jump. Ha!

Faces.

Cold, friendly. I’ll show them I can shoot. Following. He thinks he’s so smart, I just want to prove to you that I can...

Just want to prove...

Shifting...

Dark, it’s too dark, can’t see. So tired. Getting colder, forgot my coat.

Lights, a few, not enough, down this way. There he is. Chris? Chris?

Chris?

\- oh - **

  
  


JD gasped himself awake to see Buck’s concerned face hanging over him in the lamplight, the setting sun casting golden squares onto the walls behind him. He felt the light weight of the gunslinger’s hands as he held them on JD’s shoulders.

JD blinked, let out a shaky breath. He hurt all over, and his heart was racing as fast as a rabbit’s.

“Buck?” he croaked, trying to shake the hair out of his eyes; even that slight movement brought forth a burst of agony. “What - ”

Then he stopped. He knew who Buck was.

Well, of course. Images raced through JD’s mind, a smart-ass man with a moustache who had joked and roughhoused with him in the Seminole village, and later saved his life. Not once, but twice. JD blinked; the blank face of yesterday filled in, swelled and became known, and it was Buck. His friend Buck. _Of course._

  
  


For Buck’s part, he’d been worried since he noticed the pained look on JD’s battered face as he slept. Then JD had started moaning and twitching. Buck had become a little alarmed, had decided to risk incurring Nathan’s wrath and wake the kid, to get him out of whatever nightmare world he was in.

But he hadn’t been prepared for what he saw in those brown eyes when the moaning eased, stopped, and the long-lashed eyelids trembled, then opened.

A little confusion. Then, miraculously, recognition.

Recognition. Jesus Christ.

“Well - “ Buck’s heart soared at the familiarity present in JD’s eyes, and he fumbled with embarrassment, coughed. “Well, hey there, kid.”

JD peered at Buck, his eyes still confused. “You trying to kiss me or somethin’?”

“Well - you were havin’ a nightmare, kid,” Buck said with an overjoyed grin as he eased himself back in the chair by JD’s bedside. “You were startin’ to get a little active there. You OK?”

JD nodded a little, licked his lips and winced.

Buck saw this, cocked his head. “JD?”

The youth grimaced, swallowed uncertainly. “Got a bad taste in my mouth.”

“How about some water, then,” Buck suggested, walking around the bed to the pitcher.

JD’s voice followed him, still a little faint but more certain. “I - I think I’m starting to remember things. Besides who you are, I mean.”

“Y’are?” Buck looked up hopefully from where he was pouring water into a glass. Hurrying back with it he said, “Like what?”

JD paused as Buck returned with the glass, setting it down and carefully arranging JD’s pillows so the boy was sitting up enough to drink. JD sucked in his breath as Buck gently eased him up. His averted eyes told Buck he was fighting a lot of pain.

Buck handed JD the glass and sat down, looking at him eagerly. JD stared at the glass mournfully for a few moments and then said in a soft voice, “My mama...”

Buck leaned close, nodded sympathetically. When JD didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at the water glass, he patted the youth’s arm and said, “I know, son, it’s tough. I’m sorry.”

JD sniffed a little, took a drink, swallowed with some effort. Then he changed the subject. “I remember you now.”

“Is that right!” Buck grinned with genuine joy. “Only the good stuff, I hope.”

JD nodded. “You saved my life.”

Buck stroked his moustache, not sure which time JD was referring to. “Well, you know - ”

“Did Nathan stitch your chest up?”

Buck blinked. “Did he - ”

JD’s brown eyes swept Buck up and down. “I must have been out for a week. You look all right. Does it hurt?”

Buck was beginning to catch on. “Does my chest hurt?”

“Yeah - you know, from where that reb got you with the saber.”

Buck winced. “JD, that was over six months ago.”

JD looked extremely confused for a moment. “No it wasn’t. It was just...” He paused, and his face fell. “Oh.”

Buck sighed, gave JD’s arm a light, encouraging slap. “Don’t worry, JD, it’ll all come back to ya. Just takes time, is all. You remember anything else?”

JD stared at the ceiling a moment, shrugged with his one good shoulder. “The others. Chris, and Vin. Josiah, Ezra, Nathan.” He pursed his lips. “I remember you think you’re so hot with the ladies.”

“Hmph.” Buck folded his arms in mock anger. “Your memory’s still faulty, son. I KNOW I’m well-liked by the ladies.”

JD chuckled, and Buck felt like laughing himself. He was back. JD was back.

It almost made up for everything else...

JD’s brow knit with concentration as he watched the lamplight flicker on the ceiling. “Hey, Buck?”

“Hm?”

A pause. “I think I’m beginning to remember what happened. I mean, how I got here.”

Buck felt a chill. “You do?”

JD nodded, bringing up one scratched hand to gingerly touch the stitches that sat like a spider just behind his hairline. His eyes were focused on something Buck couldn’t see as he said, “I - I don’t know, I just get...dark. Somewhere dark. And...” His eyes went to Buck’s, questioning. “Chris?”

The chill went colder. Buck tried to keep his face calm. “What about Chris?”

“He’s...I guess I had a dream about him. Where is he?”

Buck paused, looked at the floor. Don’t tell the boy. He couldn’t handle it.

“Did he go someplace? I don’t remember seeing him.”

Buck cleared his throat. “Well, son, he did go...he went after the sumbitch who did this to you.” It wasn’t a lie.

JD’s eyes widened. “You mean I was attacked?”

“Well - ” Buck suddenly felt panicked. He didn’t know what was safe to tell JD, and what he should let the kid remember on his own. Best to err on the side of caution. “You’re sayin’ you don’t remember?”

JD felt the stitches, closed his eyes. The bruised face flushed with concentration, and finally he shook his head. “Not really. Just...a few pictures. Just the dark, and then...” He trailed off, closed his eyes.

Buck took advantage of JD’s not being able to see him anymore to lean forward in the chair and run his hands over his face, once, then again. He looked at JD. The crisis was over, at least for the moment, but the kid still looked so...so broken, all bruises and cuts and fragmented memory, his arm still bound to his side, his face still a jigsaw puzzle of pale cream and dark blue. It would be months, maybe, before he would be all right, but before that they had to get him walking again, and before that probably Chris would either come back, and JD would realize that his hero had beaten him senseless, or Chris wouldn’t come back, and Buck would have to tell JD why they were forming a posse against his icon. And to top it all off, Conklin had gotten himself made sheriff, and that had to be settled too, one way or another. It would be a rough ride, no matter how you looked at it.

No matter. Buck knew he wasn’t going anywhere till it was through. He didn’t care if people were giving him dirty looks. Hell, he didn’t care if they tried to pull him out of there with a hangman’s noose. Chris was gone, well, good riddance, but JD was here and he needed a friend. And Buck had a vacancy in that department.

Buck looked at JD, thought he was asleep, but as he rose to go outside and get some fresh air, the boy opened his eyes and said, “Hey, Buck?”

Buck swung back toward his young friend, tried to arrange his visage into pleasant, unworried features. “Yeah, kid?”

“You said Chris went after whoever did this to me?”

“Uh - yeah. Yeah, he did.”

A look of admiration crossed JD’s beaten face. “Gosh. He hardly knows me. I can’t believe Chris Larabee is doing that for me.”

Buck cleared his throat. “Well, he’s...that’s the kind of man Chris is.”

JD nodded, winced as his sore collarbone nagged him, but smiled at Buck. “He’ll get ‘em too. You watch.”

Buck had always kept a reasonably tight rein on his emotions, but the quiet confidence that burned in JD’s eyes as he talked about Chris nearly brought him to tears. Buck did his best to smile, but it hurt, it really hurt to smile, and as JD’s eyes drifted shut Buck still looked at him and prayed, I hope you never remember. He watched JD until the boy’s bruised face grow slack in the dying glow of the setting sun, and still he prayed. Dear God in Heaven. I hope you never remember.

  
  


The rock outcropping proved an adequate shelter for Chris and Darcy as they prepared to make camp for the night. The sun had gone down almost completely; only the merest sliver of blue marked the horizon over the distant mountains. It would be completely dark soon, and cooler. Chris stoked the fire in the pit he’d dug to a blazing brightness as Darcy appeared with his saddlebags and an appreciative expression.

“Ah, now that’s a sight for a weary traveller’s eyes.” Darcy sighed as he sat down on a nearby rock and opened up the saddlebag. “Ye’re no stranger to outdoor livin’, Chris Larabee.”

Chris shrugged, continued to poke the fire.

Darcy dug through his saddlebag, and as he did so he remarked, “I’ve got some jerky in here someplace, if I didn’t already eat it all...here it is.” He brought out a handkerchief, began unfolding it. “Would ye care for some?”

“No, thanks.” Chris said quietly, finally leaning back from the fire and sitting on the ground. The firelight flickered in his face, made twin points of light out of his eyes as they stared at the dancing flames.

Darcy picked out a piece of jerky, chewed in silence and watched the fire as well.

Uncounted minutes passed silently, the only sound in the desolate plain the crackle of the fire and the distant sounds of prairie life. Darcy didn’t attempt conversation, simply ate and watched the fire.

Finally, Chris leaned forward again, crossed his long legs and put his arms around them, massaging his knuckles. They looked spotted in the orange light, from the scabs and bruises that were on them. Darcy saw his expression change, grow sadder, and at length Chris spoke, his voice low and serious.

“When we get near Four Corners,” Chris began, studying his hands in the wavering light, “I already told you I can’t go in. But if you’d...” He trailed off, flexed his hands, put them together and brought them up to his chin, and sighed.

Darcy began tying up his bundle, and asked softly, “Who is it ye’d like me to inquire after?”

Chris gave him a quick look, then lifted up one hand and ran it through his blond hair.

“He’s the sheriff there,” he said finally, in leaden tones. “Name’s JD Dunne.”

Darcy nodded. “Dunne. That’s a fine old Irish name. Who else?”

Who else. Chris watched the flames, thinking. And said nothing.

Darcy’s eyes went to the fire as well, and after a long pause he cleared his throat and said, “I’ll wager yer friends will be wantin’ to know what’s become of ye.”

“I don’t have any friends anymore,” Chris said without a trace of self-pity. It was merely fact.

Darcy leaned back on the rock, cocked his head. “Are you so sure of that?”

Chris stared at the fire, nodded a little, his eyes lost and hopeless.

There was no sound for a little while except for the wind, and the fire. Then Darcy said, “Ye remember the friend I told ye about, the one whose ribs I broke?”

Chris glanced at him, pulled himself out of the daze he had been in, nodded.

Darcy nodded back, and continued. “He was a good friend to me, best I ever had in fact. But he’d made the mistake of gettin’ between me and a bottle of booze when I was feelin’ sorry for meself. Well, I thought that was the end of it, and I felt terrible, because I knew the price I was payin’ for one night in the bottle was too high. Too high, and I thought I had to do something to make up for me temper.”

The fire crackled, the night grew deeper. Chris put his hands back together, massaged them. “What’d you do?”

Darcy’s smile was crooked as he recalled. “I kept house fer him till he was back on his feet again. He told me later that was how he knew I was truly sorry. Anybody can apologize, he said. But only a truly repentant man does me laundry for three weeks.”

Darcy laughed at the memory, and Chris smiled a bit. There was a bit of Buck in the man’s humor, and it reminded Chris of what he’d thrown away. He stopped smiling, and winced.

The other man pulled out a pipe and some tobacco and eyed Chris seriously.

“It’s none of me business to ask what it is in that town that has ye scared to set foot in it,” he said slowly and somberly, “but if the stories I’ve heard are true, ye have friends back there who’ll take ye back.” He paused and lit the pipe, then added, “Ye also have a duty, to own up to yer mistakes and mend them.”

Chris gave him a glare. “You don’t know anything about my ‘mistakes’.”

“Oh, don’t I!” Darcy shot back. “I’ll wager I’ve made most of the same ones, and worse. There’s a reason you and I met, Chris Larabee, maybe for no other purpose than ye need someone to thrash it into that thick head of yers that there are people who don’t want ye to die, no matter what ye done.”

Chris put both hands into his hair, so he wouldn’t have to look at them. “How do you know?”

“Ah, by the Virgin Mary!” Darcy exclaimed, throwing the burnt match away and puffing on his pipe furiously before saying, “Tell me somethin’, if I hadn’t pulled ye away from that cliff, yer life would have ended at the bottom of it.”

Chris shot him another glare; he didn’t like being read.

“And what do ye suppose yer sainted wife and son would have to say about that, when they met ye at the pearly gates? ‘Ah Chris, me bucko! I’m so glad ye took the yellow way out and killed yerself! What a shinin’ example ye’re settin’ for future generations!’ ”

Chris’ glare grew darker.

“And yer friends, the ones I’ve heard the tales about, I suppose it doesn’t matter to ye that the memory of ye they’ll carry to their graves has ye driftin’ off into the night like a ghost, and never comin’ back to make things right. And if there’s a lass in that town, I’m sure you’re perfectly contented that she’ll think ye died a bleedin’ coward.”

Chris let out an inarticulate growl and jumped to his feet, pulling back his fist in a lightning move. He didn’t throw the punch, however, but stood there, a look of wild anger in his blue eyes.

Darcy remained still, puffing on his pipe, and eyed Chris calmly, except his eyebrows went up in mild surprise.

“Strike me if ye like,” he said, “but I assure ye, I can take ye two falls out o’ three.”

Chris blinked, as if shocked by his action; then he slowly lowered his fist, a look of mingled anger and horror on his face.

“Aye,” Darcy nodded, a look of total understanding. “Gets away from ye, doesn’t it.”

Chris walked back to his spot, sat down and ran his hands through his hair miserably.

“I can’t go back,” he said in a small, bewildered voice.

Darcy leaned back on the rock, puffed his pipe, then asked, “Why not?”

It was a simple question, calmly and unobtrusively asked, but it took Chris a long time to open his mouth to answer it, and when he did his eyes were distant and anguished. “I got drunk, and I hurt someone. Someone who didn’t deserve it. Damn kid who thought I was some kind of hero.”

Chris paused, buried his hands in his hair again, and sighed. “He might be dead. He’s probably hurt real bad. Josiah said...townspeople want me hung. I hurt some good men too, They trusted me and I let ‘em down. Townspeople probably hate them too, and they don’t deserve that.”

Darcy smoked his pipe quietly, watched Chris with an empathetic eye.

Chris balled up his hands and pushed them against his mouth, staring at the flames with tears in his eyes. “I faced down men twice my size and licked ‘em, but...if I go back, I’ll go to jail, and I keep thinkin’ how I’ll have nowhere to go if one of ‘em comes to see me. I’ll have to look in their eyes.”

Darcy’s question was softer, almost invisible in the quiet desert night. “And what do ye expect ye’ll see?”

“Hate,” Chris said at once, his fist pushing tighter against his lips as he talked. After a pause, he added, “Betrayal. Disappointment.”

Darcy nodded. “And if ye don’t go back, they’ll feel the same things, but at least ye won’t have to look at ‘em. Is that it?”

Chris winced and looked down.

The fire crackled. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled. Chris didn’t move for a few minutes, then said in a forlorn voice wracked with guilt, “Things were bad when I left. They’ve probably gotten worse. I want to set things right, but probably I can’t.”

“Ye can,” Darcy said simply. “Don’t think I’m makin’ light of yer heavy heart. But if there’s one thing I learned, it’s that people will surprise ye. If it’s askin’ after yer friend you’re wantin’, I’ll do it. But if ye come with me to Four Corners, if ye go back there like a man and try to correct the wrong ye done, it’s for sure ye’ll be seein’ somethin’ else in those eyes ye’re so afraid of. Ye’ll see forgiveness.”

Chris’ heart ached at those words. It was all he wanted, but...he shook his head, remembering Buck’s eyes, his bitter words. “I don’t think so. Not from everybody.”

Darcy waved his pipe. “Ye’re only a man. Ye do yer damnedest, and let each man choose his own path from then on. Some men are pig-headed, but the men I think ye’re referin’ to, they want ye back. They know yer weaknesses, they want to see yer strengths. Ye’ve battled injustice together for six months, they’ve seen yer courage and yer integrity. They know that ye’ll not stand down when one is injured, and fightin’ for his life. That ye’ll not step aside from protectin’ the helpless and the weak. But now the one who needs help is you, Chris Larabee. Will ye not stand up for yerself as well?”

Chris’ eyes never moved from the fire as Darcy spoke. He gazed at the dancing tongues of flame as if hypnotized. There were images in the fire; Chris knew Darcy couldn’t see them, but he could. There were Sarah and Adam, smiling and full of life; a burning house and three years of drunken sorrow; Buck’s face, smiling and welcoming, good to see you, buddy; the others, Vin’s quiet support, Ezra’s cheerful cunning; Nathan’s eternal patience, and Josiah’s calm wisdom. Another face appeared, all buoyancy and enthusiasm, a cocky grin and determined eyes half-hidden by unruly black hair. And they were riding, all riding, and he was riding with them. Chris felt the pain of that loss, the emptiness that it could never be that way again. But - but maybe he could do something. But what could erase the hatred he had seen in Buck’s eyes that morning? How could he atone in a way that the others would accept? He had seen JD’s eyes in his nightmares, bitter and resentful eyes that glared at him from a face marred with purple bruises and matted hair, and a body crippled and broken. You did this to me, those eyes said. You aren’t a hero. You’re a drunken loser.

Chris took a shaky breath. God, to change that. To amend it, even in the smallest way...just so that people in the town wouldn’t spit when they said his name. So the other men wouldn’t have to pretend they’d never known him, to be trusted. And maybe, maybe someday, JD wouldn’t be ashamed to admit that he’d once seen something to admire in the man who, one awful out-of-control night, had thrown him into a brick wall and beat him senseless. Chris felt tears sting his eyes, shut them to seal the images in his exhausted mind. What wouldn’t he do to make things right? Just the chance...

The night was total now. The last faint glimmer of blue had given way to deepest black, complete except for the twinkling stars overhead and the brilliant fire.

Finally, Chris spoke, and his voice was a whisper. “I’ll think on it,” he said, and didn’t shift his eyes from the fire.

Darcy nodded silently, and puffed his pipe, watching the smoke trail upward towards the mountains, and disappear into the pitch-black night.

  
  


Durning stood on the wooden boardwalk in front of the saloon with his friends and drank his beer with a smug smile.

“Nice night.” he said, looking around at the others. Durning was leaning against the nearest post, his hands in his business suit. Tims was sitting on the bench in front of the big saloon window. Next to him, Sherson smoked a cigar and stared in a bored manner down the alley next to the saloon. Childers was propped against a barrel on the other side of the saloon doors, his arms crossed in an impatient way.

Tims shrugged, cast nervous eyes into the street. It had all seemed so exciting before, the prospect of making a killing breaking into the jewelry store with that outlaw, but now that the night was closing in he was visibly unsure.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” Tims said uncertainly, scratching his neck.

Sherson turned and glared at him. “You turning chicken?”

“No,” Tims said quickly. “It’s just - if we get caught - ”

“Sh!” Durning hissed, casting a watchful eye to the noisy clamor inside the brightly lit saloon.

Tims made a face, lowered his voice. “Well, it’s dangerous. I mean, how can we trust this Concho guy?”

“We don’t,” Durning said matter-of-factly, shrugging. “Or, I don’t. I just want the cash.”

“Will you guys shut up!” Childers whispered tightly. “Christ, why don’t you just yell it out, and let everybody know.”

Durning squinted into the street, saw Ezra coming, his fine red jacket flapping in the evening breeze.

“Ah, good evening, Standish,” he said in an oily way, lifting up his hat as Ezra approached.

The gambler looked up, blinked at him as if trying to place his face. He didn’t smile, simply replied, “Good evening.”

“You’ve been a stranger,” Sherson said with a smile, walking closer as Ezra put one hand on the swinging doors. “Got a hot prospect you didn’t want to tell your old friends about?”

Ezra stopped, looked around at them with what Sherson interpreted as a contemptuous expression.

“I’ve been occupied in other matters,” Ezra said in an irritated tone, his eyes on the saloon inside.

“You mean the guy who got beat up?” Sherson asked in conversational tones.

Ezra turned glaring eyes at him, didn’t respond.

“Well, you know we still got that bet going, if you’re interested. Uh - no offense, if you know him. Just thought you might want in, the pot’s pretty big - ”

“Excuse me.” Ezra stabbed the words at Sherson, then pushed the saloon doors open and went inside.

Sherson had to jump back to avoid being hit by the saloon doors, and as the others looked at him he laughed a bit and said, “What a jerk.”

Durning made a face, pulled his watch out.

“What time is it?” Tims asked from the bench. He was wiping his face on his handkerchief. Despite the cool evening, sweat ran down his face.

“Eleven o’clock,” Durning replied.

Tims nodded, seemed to sweat more.

A minute passed. Sherson walked up to Durning, and when he’d caught his eye said in a low voice, “I think you and me are the only ones who can handle this thing.”

Durning looked down the street. “Maybe.”

A figure came down the street on a horse. The men on the porch all seemed to see him at the same time, and instantly straightened themselves and tried to look casual. It was dark in the street, but that jacket with the shoulder flaps was unmistakable.

“Evenin’ boys,” Vin said as he reined his horse to a stop in front of the saloon.

“Evenin’,” Sherson responded politely, giving Vin a big smile.

The tracker seemed to be studying them, eyeing them silently in a way Durning didn’t like, so he asked, “So, you find out who took our money yet?”

Vin shook his head. “But I got some ideas.”

“Well, fine.” Durning grinned. “We’ll be here a few more days yet. Just let us know.”

Vin nodded a little, hardly moved otherwise. “You boys best be careful about where you take your air. This town can get kinda rough this time of night.”

“Oh - oh, we’re fine.” Sherson smiled. “Don’t worry about us.”

Vin blinked, still sat there on his horse, not moving a damn muscle. Durning felt he was being turned inside out, like a trouser pocket, and he resented it. Resented it a lot.

“Well,” the former bounty hunter finally said in a low rasp. “You boys have a pleasant evening.” And gently urging his horse forward, Vin rode down the dark and smoky street.

Tims almost jumped off his bench. “He knows,” he screeched in a tiny voice.

“Shut up.” Durning commanded as he glared at Vin’s retreating back, and tried not to let on that Vin had gotten him nervous.

“All of you shut up,” Childers snapped. He leaned away from the barrel and walked a short distance down the boardwalk.

Sherson shook his head, his eyes on the horseman who was melting in and out of the shadows. “It don’t matter. He’s not the law anymore, he can’t do nothing to us. Nobody can.”

“That’s right,” Durning agreed, nodding as the noises of the saloon grew louder behind them. “And once we do this, we go on our merry way and good riddance.”

The other men nodded, Sherson confidently, Childers a little worried, Tims swallowing his worry and staring after Vin.

Bunch of idiots, Durning thought to himself, and leaned against the post once more, and waited for midnight.

  
  


Vin slowly guided his horse down the deserted street, his dark eyes flickering from street fire to empty window to dark alley as he plodded along in silence.

“Mr. Tanner!”

Conklin’s voice. Vin reined in, turned in his saddle to see the new sheriff standing proudly on the porch of the jail, his badge gleaming as it caught the glow of the fires. He left the porch and sauntered up to Vin with a smug grin. “Out for an evening ride?”

Vin nodded slowly, said nothing.

“Well, it’s a nice night for it,” Conklin said, looking up and down the street in satisfaction. “Just so you know, you and your boys don’t need to patrol the streets anymore. Me and Gerald can handle things just fine from here on out.”

Vin nodded again, picked up his reins.

“Oh - one more thing.” Conklin held up his hand.

Vin looked back at him.

“It’s come back to me,” Conklin said with an air of importance, one hand going up to clutch his badge-laden lapel, “that you and your friends had some kind of meeting this afternoon with Mary Travis.”

Vin cocked his head, eyes calm as a summer lake. “She came askin’ about JD.”

“Well, uh, still,” Conklin coughed. “Still, I’m aware of the association you men have with her, being that her father-in-law appointed you, but now that that association has ended it’s best you respect her position and leave her alone.”

Vin blinked. “She know you’re tellin’ me this?”

“Well - no,” Conklin admitted. “But Stephen would agree with me, I think. It’s just...well, it’s not appropriate, her a young widow and you a gang - a group of unattached men. You’re kind of known for wild ways and Mr. Wilmington - well, everybody knows what kind of a man he is. People are talking already, and I simply want to protect her from any scandal.”

Vin eyed him, the face a placid mask. “I see.”

Conklin took this remark for agreement, nodded with a smile. “Now, you and the others are welcome to stay here as long as you behave yourselves. Just let me do my job, don’t get in the way, and we’ll all be happy.”

Vin sighed a little, gathered up his reins, and giving Conklin a tired look said, “You might want to keep your eye on that bunch in front of the bar. Could be trouble.”

“Who?” Conklin squinted down the street. “Oh, they’re all right. Businessmen from out east, they won’t be any bother.”

Vin looked back over his shoulder, then faced front again and dug some jerky out of his pocket. He bit a little off, then tucked the jerky back into his jacket and tugged at his hat.

“Evenin’, Mr. Conklin.” He said softly, and continued down the street.

“Good evening, Mr. Tanner.” Conklin replied, then watched the horseman fade into the night before climbing back up on the porch, glancing at the cluster of men in front of the bar, and shaking his head. Trouble. Tanner and his bunch, they were the trouble.

Conklin patted the gun in his pocket, and watched the street.

  
  


JD lay in Nathan’s bed, staring at the ceiling. He’d awakened about fifteen minutes before, and couldn’t get back to sleep. Buck slumbered in a chair nearby, and JD didn’t think he needed anything, so he didn’t wake him up. Instead, he lay in the bed and thought.

He remembered things. He was still remembering them, and it bothered him that he couldn’t remember everything. His mind was like a patchwork quilt with pieces missing. Some things he remembered didn’t seem like real occurrences, and he wasn’t sure what was real and what he just dreamed, or imagined. Images came up, like a lantern show: The little girl Olivia, Ezra’s mother, Stuart James’ ranch, the working girl Emily. Hunting down the Indian renegade Chanu, riding out with the others to rescue Chris from the prison, drinking with Vin and Josiah. Bits and pieces, but there was so much more that he knew he’d done and lived through, but it wasn’t coming. Well, it would.

He reached up with his good hand and gingerly touched his face. It hurt like hell, and JD wondered what it looked like. God, I hope I’m not disfigured. He moved his sore jaw. Somebody really punched me. Ow. OW. His fingers wandered up into his hairline, where something was sharply painful, like a cut. He touched the stitches Nathan had made, and frowned. How had that happened? He couldn’t remember.

Not that he hadn’t tried. JD put every ounce of effort he had into remembering how he had gotten injured, but nothing. Dark. He knew it had been dark, night probably. And Chris was involved somehow, because he remembered saying his name. Maybe he’d found JD, and JD had said it before passing out. Dang it! Why couldn’t he remember?

Then it came to him, swept into his mind like a monsoon. Fists. Fists and something hard, rough, sudden...the ground. No, a wall. Yes, wait a minute...a brick wall. Yes, it was a brick wall, he remembered running into one, really hard, but he didn’t remember how or why, just that it had hurt like hell. Fallen off his horse? Maybe, but JD knew he had always been a careful rider. He didn’t just fling himself off of his horse into a brick wall. Maybe the horse threw him? Ah, maybe...but...no. Well, maybe.

JD sighed in frustration, winced as his broken ribs protested his breathing. He wondered idly if he should try to walk again. Maybe he could do it now. JD didn’t understand why he couldn’t walk; his legs weren’t broken, and he could move them, so he knew he wasn’t paralyzed. It was just...when it came time to move, for some reason he just didn’t know what to do. He remembered walking, riding - in fact, in his dreams he still did plenty of both. So why couldn’t he do it when he was awake?

A flood of panic came over JD as he considered that maybe this was permanent - maybe he was crippled for life, like those men he’d seen as a child in Boston, at the soldiers’ home. God, what if he never walked again? He glanced at Buck, fear gripping him. He’d have to leave, go to some big city and live in one of those sanitariums. He’d be alone. And his sheriff’s job, he’d have to give that up. But it was all he ever wanted, that and to ride, and prove to the others that he was a man. Geez. What if - what if -

Ah, that’s crazy, JD’s eyes went back to the ceiling. You got your memory back, the other stuff will come back to. And when Chris gets back, you’ll impress him with how quickly you recovered, and maybe he’ll give you one of those crooked smiles of his and nod in that kind of halfway-approving way he does sometimes. JD smiled. Maybe he’d surprise everybody, and be back at the jail when Chris brought his attacker in. Just a scratch, Chris. All in a day’s work for men like us, huh.

JD’s hand wandered to where his right arm was still bound, and he grew more reflective. He was no fool. He felt like he’d been thrown off a cliff, and that wasn’t going to heal in a day. When his walking came back, he’d have to go easy on the riding, and he could tell he was going to be sleeping a lot. He felt helpless, and JD hated that. They probably think I’m finished. He once again glanced at Buck. Well, I’ll show them. As soon as Buck wakes up I’ll try to walk again, and maybe it’s come back and I don’t even know it. Then I’ll just have to wait for - ow, dammit! - wait for this collarbone to heal up, and I’ll be better than ever. And Chris’ll show up dragging some...some...

Hm.

JD had a shadowy image dance through his mind, a dark form lurching in a darker place. It didn’t connect to anything else, didn’t even make sense, but somehow that image frightened him, like a half-remembered nightmare. Maybe that was the person who attacked him?

The image came again, and JD strained to make out details. Everything was blurred, indistinct, but JD got the sense that whoever attacked him...knew him? Or JD knew who he was? Maybe somebody he put away, with a grudge? That must be it.

Nothing else would come, and JD sighed and gave up. It made his head hurt anyway. God, I’m bored. He looked over at Buck. When he wakes up, I’ll ask him to go to my room and get my dime novels. That’s what I’ll do. It’ll give me something to do until I get out of this damn bed. Until Chris gets back.

Then JD shut his eyes, and tried in a soft, unhurried way to remember more. He knew there was a lot he hadn’t remembered yet, and he didn’t want to lose a thing.

  
  


The alleyway was dark, but the livery had a lone lantern glowing beside its wide entrance, and the four businessmen huddled around it as if they were freezing cold.

They didn’t talk, hadn’t said much since they left the saloon. Tims was looking around in a birdlike way, searching every dark corner around them as if expecting to get caught any second. Durning shook his head at the man’s nervousness and sighed. He should have done this alone.

After a few minutes footsteps were heard, and Concho Charles slid out of the darkness, with four men behind him. They walked silently up to the businessmen, and Concho gave them a friendly smile. “Ready?”

Durning and Sherson looked at each other, and Durning nodded.

“Excellent.” Concho was putting on a pair of kid gloves, fitting them around his fingers. “I can get us in all right, but I’ll need whichever of you so expertly opened that safe to help me out once we get inside.”

“That’s me.” Durning said in hard tones.

Concho looked him up and down, quickly, and pulled out four dirty bandannas. “Put these over your faces. Let’s get going, we haven’t much time.”

They all nodded, took the cloths, and followed Concho back down the alleyway, and down a path that took them past the back entrances to most of Four Corners’ main street shops. The night was black, pitch black, no light except the occasional glow of a street fire slicing through the narrow alleyways between the buildings.

Tims tripped, grabbed Childers and let out a sharp curse.

“Sh!” Concho warned, and kept walking.

Tims removed himself from Childers, and whispered, “Sorry.”

They slid down one alleyway, up another, until at last they were behind a one-story brick building with a small back door.

“This is it, gentlemen,” Concho said quietly. He pulled out some tools, then set to work unlocking the back door.

Tims looked at the men Concho had brought with him. They looked hard, mean, scarred, the kind of man Tims sometimes wished he was. He knew it took a lot of guts to be that kind of man, and thought that, since he was in the middle of committing a pretty big crime, he must be turning into an outlaw. He supposed he should be thrilled, but instead he felt like throwing up. And wondered why.

There was a small click, and the sound of a door on slightly rusty hinges being nudged open.

“Hurry up,” Concho commanded, and Tims felt a hand on his arm, pulling him into the store.

Suddenly one of Concho’s men said, “Hssst!” and darted into the shadows.

“Shit!” Concho spat, and pushed Tims back into the alleyway. The businessman lost his balance and fell, shook his head to clear it and said in a whisper, “What - ”

Then he found himself looking into the barrel of the long-haired tracker’s shotgun.

“Evenin’, folks.” the tracker drawled in the dark. “Out for the night air?”

There was a flare of light, and suddenly the alley was brightly lit from a lantern that the tracker was setting on the ground. In its spectral glow, Tims looked around and saw that Concho and his men had run, leaving him and his friends alone with this maniac.

He ventured another look at the tracker, but the long-haired man looked bizarre in the flickering lamplight, all huge shadows and bright patches of light, and his eyes were blazing. Leveling the gun at the businessmen, the tracker said quietly, “You men best give up your guns. Let’s make this easy on all of us.”

Tims didn’t know what to do. He looked at the others, but got no help; Durning was hanging by the door, glaring at the tracker like he wanted to kill him. Sherson and Childers were standing together, their hands up, looking like they wanted to bolt, but frightened of this ghostly vision.

Tims decided the best thing to do would be to pass out, and was about to when another voice broke the silence.

“What’s going on here?”

Tims looked up, saw the sheriff Conklin striding toward him.

“Sheriff,” the tracker said calmly, “these men were about to visit the jewelry store after hours.”

“I can see that,” Conklin snapped, but his harsh look was for the tracker, not the thieves. “What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Tanner? Didn’t I tell you to stay out of my way?”

Tanner lowered his gun, backed up a step. “Yes, sir, you did, but - ”

“Oooh, you gunslingers,” Conklin grumbled as he pulled out his pistol and began loading it. “You think you got the right to make your own law. Didn’t nobody teach you to respect authority?”

Childers and Sherson looked at each other, then lowered their hands and started edging away, toward the open alleyway.

Tanner noticed this, raised his rifle.

“Put that thing down!” Conklin commanded, still loading his pistol. “I’m the law here, remember?”

Durning was backing away from the door, toward his compatriots and freedom. Tanner eyed them and said, “Mr. Conklin - “

“God damn renegades.” Conklin finished loading his pistol and snapped the chamber shut. Only then did he look up, but by then three of the businessmen were mostly into the adjoining alleyway, and were edging backwards very fast.

“Hey!” Conklin said crossly. “What the hell - ”

“RUN!” Durning hollered, and several things happened at once.

Durning, Sherson, and Childers ran like lightning down the alley.

Conklin, too stunned to do anything, watched the would-be thieves run away in stupefication.

Tanner cursed, primed his Winchester, and raised it to fire off a warning shot.

And Tims jumped up in a tremendous burst of pent-up energy, and tackled him.

The gun went off, horribly loud in that small space. Tims rolled over, almost into the lantern, and when he had righted himself leaped to his feet and began to run, then looked behind him, slowed down and stopped.

The sheriff - the new sheriff - was sitting on the ground, holding his arm and staring at Vin in dumbfounded shock. Blood trickled from around his fingers. Vin was lowering the gun, leaning toward Conklin to help him up.

“You shot me!” Conklin said in disbelief.

Tims noticed they weren’t looking at him, and paused to watch.

The tracker put his hand out. “Mr. Conklin - ”

“My God.” Conklin was getting to his feet, clumsily, favoring his wounded arm, “I can’t believe you shot me!”

Tanner lowered the gun completely. “It was a accident. The fella on the gr - ”

“Like hell it was!” Conklin growled. “You shot me on purpose!”

Tims saw the tracker’s expression turned to confusion, and he shook his head.

“That’s right,” a voice in the shadows said suddenly. “He did.”

Durning. Tims blinked in amazement as his business partner staggered back out of the shadows, panting but earnestly nodding his head. He had taken the bandanna off, and Tims remembered that he’d been in the shadows the whole time. Conklin probably hadn’t even seen him.

“See?” Conklin spat as Durning came closer. “I have a witness!”

Tanner backed up a step, shook his head. “Mr. Conklin, this is one of the men who was trying to rob the jewelry store. He’s lyin’ to you.”

“Rob the jewelry store!” Durning snorted in mortification. “Me? You’re out of your mind.”

More footsteps. A stout older man came up, out of breath and red-faced.

“Conklin!” he exclaimed when he saw the blood. “What happened?”

Conklin’s face went black and he stabbed a bloody finger at Vin.

“Gerald, arrest that man for assault. Look at this! He shot me!”

Townsend’s jaw dropped, and he stared at the tracker in alarm.

Tanner sighed in exasperation. “It was a accident!”  
  
“That’s not what I saw,” Durning said smoothly.

Townsend began digging around in his pockets, glancing at Tanner to make sure he wasn’t trying to escape. “I think I got the handcuffs here somewhere...”

“God damn it, this hurts!” Conklin wailed, pulling at his shirtsleeve to look at his wound. He looked up at Vin with burning, vengeful eyes and hissed, “I always knew your kind was trouble. You want to make your own law, bring decent people down to your own low level. I told them you should have been run out right after Larabee, or you’d try to take over. And I was right!”

Tanner looked at Durning, but Tims watched as the businessman looked back at him with a smugly triumphant expression that said, guess I got you. Townsend finally found the handcuffs, walked over to Tanner and paused.

Conklin began to walk away, turned around and gave Townsend an aggravated look. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“Well - ” Townsend turned to Conklin. “How do we do this? I mean, is there some procedure I follow...?”

“Aw, hell, Gerald, just throw the handcuffs on him and drag him to jail!” Conklin turned back around. “Get an account from the witness and I’ll be back in a while.” And he was gone.

Townsend behaved as if he was trying to handcuff a bear. He looked uncertainly at Tanner, but the former bounty hunter shook his head.

“You won’t be needin’ those,” he said sadly, handing his gun to Townsend. “I won’t put up a fight.”

“Well - well, you’d better not.” Townsend tried to sound threatening, but failed. He seemed to be afraid to touch the tracker. Instead of taking his arm, he merely cleared his throat and said, “Well, let’s...go to the jail. I guess.”

Tanner threw Durning a withering look. “Right,” he said, and walked with Townsend out of the alley.

Durning watched them go, hands in his pockets, and after a few minutes Tims scurried over to join him.

“What’d you do that for?” he babbled.

“You kidding?” Durning grinned, “Who you want in jail, him or us? Come on, let’s go back to the hotel. I’ll go to the jail in the morning.”

They hurried out of the alleyway, Tims looking behind him the whole way.

After a moment, two other shadows appeared out of the darkness. Concho’s teeth gleamed as he surveyed the empty alleyway.

“This is wonderful.” The criminal laughed. “This is better than I ever dreamed.”

The other man, Torres, peered after the figures. “What?”

Concho smiled broadly. “By this time tomorrow, there won’t be a hired gun within fifty miles of this town. Torres, get back to the boys. I have another message for you.”

Torres nodded. “What is it?”

Concho walked over to the still-open back door of the jewelry store, pulled a bag out of his jacket,and held the door for a moment before going inside. His smile looked ghoulish, almost undead in the orange light as he looked as his companion.

“Tell them it’s time to come back,” he said in a happy voice. “Tell them the door is open.”

And went inside.

  
  


JD sat propped up in Nathan’s bed, and was trying to keep his mind occupied until Buck returned with his dime novels. His brain hurt from trying to remember things, so he decided to give it a rest and sat humming to himself.

He didn’t know many songs. Most of the ones he did know came from his mother. And even those he couldn’t really remember all the words, just some of them. But it was something to do besides pick the lint off Nathan’s bedspread, so JD stared at the coverlet in the low light and tried to remember as much of his mother’s songs as he could as his free hand roamed over the worn fabric.

“The minstrel boy to the...war is gone...” JD sung quietly, smiling as he remembered his mother’s voice. The memory felt warm, and he wrapped himself in it. “In the ranks of...hm hm hmmm...”

Now what were the words? JD tried to picture his mother singing them, and smiled again.

At that moment the door burst open and Mr. Conklin stormed in.

JD started, blinked at the man in fear before he recognized him.

Conklin barely looked at him. “Where’s Nathan?”

JD blinked again. Conklin was holding his arm, and he looked like he was bleeding. “Uh - he’s asleep at the church.”

“God damn it,” Conklin swore, and seemed to see JD for the first time. His jaw dropped.

It was then that the light caught his sheriff’s badge, and JD noticed it.

“Hey!” he protested. “You’re wearing my badge! “

“I sure am,” Conklin said gruffly. “And your fine friend almost killed me because of it!”

JD winced at Conklin’s loud voice, and said, “Huh?”

“That tracker!” Conklin rubbed his arm. “He just shot me.” He shook his head, glared at JD. “What a bunch of no-good rough-housers. Think just because they can sweet-talk the judge, they can do whatever they want!”

JD was getting annoyed, and wished Conklin would leave, since Nathan wasn’t there.

“And you.” Conklin shook his head again, looking JD up and down as he lay in the bed, “You’re worse than any of them. You couldn’t stay east and let trouble find you. You had to come out here looking for it! Well, I guess you learned. You put your trust in a maniac like Larabee, and this is what you get!”

Now JD was really angry, and confused. “What are you talking about, Mr. Conklin?”

“What do you think, son?” Conklin screeched. “The man’s a lunatic! They all are!”

“Chris isn’t a lunatic.” JD said hotly, “He’s a great man!”

“Huh!” Conklin replied. “A great man who beat you black and blue!”

JD stopped. Everything stopped for the merest fraction of a second.

Then JD blinked and recovered himself, recalled that Conklin was an alarmist. “Oh, come on!”

“Ain’t you got no sense left?” Conklin cried. “You’re going to defend a man who ambushed you in a dark alley and threw you around like a sack of dirt? He nearly killed you, son! Don’t you remember?”

JD stopped again, longer this time, and his mind grabbed onto Conklin’s words, and did not let go. JD stared at the coverlet in panic, shoved the attacking thought away, but it came back. And still he could not accept it.

But...

Dark alley? Threw...around...?

Oh. Oh.

Rushing images, kicking, hitting, he’s too fast and strong, hard and tight and pain, Jesus, pain -

JD raised one trembling hand slowly, touched the stitches, but his hand was numb with shock.

More images.

A knock on the door, two-thirty, come quick will you, Larabee’s drunk -

Dark, very dark, cold and tired, there he is, oh boy he is drunk, well maybe I’ll just follow him, oops he saw me, wait no he didn’t, there he goes. Woops, he’s falling down maybe he needs a hand Chris? Chris?

Chris?

\- oh -

\- OH -

no...

The door opened, and Buck came in, the dime novels in his hand, but JD barely noticed him. He knew, somehow, that Buck had tossed the books down, was rushing to his side, and Buck was asking something, and he looked concerned, but JD felt like he was underwater, he couldn’t hear what Buck was saying; he didn’t think Buck was really with him anymore. Buck touched his good arm, but JD didn’t feel it, he was in a tight tunnel with only one awful thought to focus on, one reality that was unspooling itself, horrible and scarring and unstoppable, and it was true, but it couldn’t be, but it was, it was, and a searing pain shot up through JD’s being and before he could stop himself he remembered.

Remembered everything.

He felt himself slipping down in the bed, shrinking away from the assault of memories, but it was no use. No use. Buck was there but too far away. JD felt his body begin to shake, heard himself start to whimper and moan helplessly under what he was experiencing, but he was outside himself, and could not stop the pain.

A voice, somewhere distant, calling for Nathan.

Agony, everywhere, great red bursts of color. Slamming into the wall, again and again, can’t stop it, oh, oh, no -

A hand, clutching his, but too late. He gripped it back, tried to, but there was another way.

JD let out a small, sobbing gasp and passed out cold.

  
  


Darcy was sitting by the fire, still smoking his pipe and scribbling some words in a journal he kept in his saddlebag. He heard a horseman approaching, glanced over to where Chris was sleeping, half-hidden by a boulder a few yards away. Then Darcy set down the journal, pulled out his derringer, stood up and walked toward the sound of the hooves.

It was a middle-aged man with a sheriff’s star on his coat. Darcy was in the shadow of the rock now, so he couldn’t see the man very well. The man tugged his hat and said, “Evenin’.”

“Good evening to ye.” Darcy said in friendly but uncertain tones.

The man stayed on his horse. “Mind if I ask your business out here?”

Darcy took a step closer. “Me an’ my friend just stopped here for the night. Is that a problem, sheriff?”

“Hm.” The man urged his mount a little closer, regarded Darcy in the starlight. “No, not really, but you’d better be careful. There’s been a lot of marauders out this way, and it’s not very safe for travelers.”

“Oh.” Darcy pocketed his pistol. “Well, thanks for the warnin’.”

The sheriff nodded. “Where you headed?”

“Four Corners.” Darcy responded conversationally, and looked back toward the fire, but it and Chris were hidden by the rock. “We - ”

“Four Corners?” the sheriff repeated, and there was a sound of alarm in his voice that made Darcy turn back in curiosity.

“Yes,” he said. “Why?”

“Well...” The sheriff rubbed his chin. “I should probably warn you, Four Corners isn’t a very good place to be just now. The sheriff’s been attacked, and there ain’t much law left.”

“You don’t say?” Darcy cocked his head.

The sheriff nodded. “I’ve been in touch with Mary Travis, her father in law is a circuit judge. She just cabled me this afternoon, told me herself. One of the hired guns beat up the sheriff, pretty bad, and the town’s turned on the rest of the men Travis hired. Last cable said, if things kept goin’ the way they were, they’d be gone by tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Darcy replied, then asked, “Did she say how the sheriff was faring?”

“Bad,” came the immediate reply. “Broken ribs, busted collarbone, but the worst thing is he’s crippled. Can’t walk anymore. She didn’t say so, but my guess is they’ll be shipping him off to a home pretty soon.”

Darcy winced. “That bad is it?”

The man nodded, then added, “I had a cousin once, same thing happened to him, same age too, real young. He was attacked by a drunk in New Orleans in seventy-three, got hit in the head with a brick. Put him right in a wheelchair.”

“That’s a shame,” Darcy said sympathetically. “Where is he now?”

The man looked down. “He killed himself last year.”

Darcy took a sharp breath.

“Well, you be careful,” the man said, picking up the reins of his horse. “Oh, and be on the lookout for a man dressed all in black, wandering around. His name is Larabee.”

Darcy looked up, and his face was calm. “Who’s he?”

The man fiddled with the reins as he spoke. “Well, according to Four Corners’ new sheriff, he’s the man who’s responsible for the other sheriff’s injuries . He’s supposed to be in hiding, so’s he don’t get lynched, but word is he’s running. There’s about four bounties on his head, all from outlaws with a grudge I guess. In any case, if you see him, steer clear. He’s rumored to be one dangerous son of a bitch when he’s drunk, and from what I hear every soul in Four Corners wants him dead, including a few of his men. And you don’t want to be standing in the way when they catch up with him.”

Darcy smiled benignly. “Right. Thank you, sheriff.”

“Good night,” the man said, tugged on his hat, and rode off into the night.

Darcy stood there for a moment, shaking his head sadly. Then he turned and went back to the rock, put out the fire, and despite his troubled mind, in a few minutes was fast asleep.

He awoke with a start a while later; how long, he didn’t know. The embers from the fire were still glowing a little, and in the low light Darcy saw a glimmering object that lay directly in front of his face, with a scrap of paper that looked like it had been torn from his journal lying next to it.

Darcy sat up, reached for the object and paper.

A man’s gold wedding ring. And a note.

Two words:

Help him.

Darcy looked up.

Chris Larabee was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

The stars were shining that night.

Their light fell on the oceans, the forests and rivers, the towns and villages of a rough country still struggling to mature. They glowed on calmly that night, indifferent to the tumultuous activities in one country, in one territory, in one small western town...

They shone on the man in the tan coat, being taken to jail for a crime he didn’t commit. Their luminence fell softly on the small white church, seeming to know that the healer and the preacher that were inside needed some heavenly reassurance. Their silvery shine glittered brightly, as if they knew that a solitary figure sat and stared at them from the dark, melancholy depths of his rented room, stared at them with tired green eyes and wished for sleep that wouldn’t come.

And they seemed to shine more warmly where it was needed most, in the sickroom of a youth torn apart in body and soul, trapped in a nightmare prison no one could reach. It went unnoticed, but they also touched with their silvery light the anguished heart of the man who sat by the boy’s side, and prayed that this night would end.

They also shone on another figure, riding alone through the moonswept prairie, his black clothes made blue by the stark light of the stars above. Thrown-back shoulders, a hard ride, but a face drawn in deepest pain, the heart made bare in the bitter eyes full of self-hatred and incrimination as his horse’s hoofbeats beat the same cadence in his head, over and over...

My fault...run out of town...my fault...crippled for life...my fault...

And a great distance behind, another rider, searching beneath the white starlight, his handsome face sad and worried, and in his pocket a gold ring and a note, two words.

Help him.

The rider would help, but not without the man in black. He would find him, he had to, and he wouldn’t give up.

And all of this happened under a canopy of the most brilliant stars, removed and indifferent as they looked out over the wild territory and saw the terrible struggle that was going on, wherein everything could be lost or gained, in souls and minds and hearts of this handful of men waging war in the cold, dark night. An imaginative mind would say they could not be unsympathetic; there was too much turmoil here for the heavens to be uninvolved.

But the stars were not saying. They kept their silence, in the bleak night of that western town; kept their silence, and watched. And gave their light.

  
  


Josiah had heard the gunshot as he worked in the candlelit church, and after a few minutes of deliberation decided to at least walk down the street and have a look at what was going on. He was buckling on his gun and walking toward the door when suddenly it burst open, and Conklin walked in, gun out and aimed at Josiah’s chest.

Josiah blinked, said calmly, “Evening, Mr. Conklin.” He looked closer, saw that the man was clutching his gun arm with his other hand, and there was blood there. His heart jumping, Josiah stepped closer. “Are you all - ”

“Stay back,” Conklin said in a shaky voice, rattling the gun in Josiah’s direction. His wound was not major, but the pain was still enough to make his face pale and sweaty. Despite this, he cleared his throat and said in his most commanding voice, “You just stay away from me. And take off that gun.”

Josiah paused, then very slowly unbuckled his gun and laid in on the nearest pew, never taking his eyes off Conklin. Deliberately he said, “Mr. Conklin, what’s wrong? What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’ll tell you what happened!” Conklin snarled, still waving the gun at Josiah. “That tracker friend of yours shot at me, tried to kill me. I was lucky, but I ain’t gonna make the mistake of turning my back on you gunslingers twice.”

“You’re bleeding,” Josiah rumbled in soothing tones, he hoped. “Do you want me to get Nathan?”

Conklin nodded, but hastily said, “Don’t think I don’t know this might be a trick! That little punk might be in on this with you, for all I know, and this is some kind of ambush. I’ll just stay here by the door and you bring Nathan to me.”

Josiah nodded, putting his hands up and backing away from his gun. “What little punk is that, Mr. Conklin?”

“Mr. Dunne,” Conklin explained impatiently. “He told me Nathan was here, but I’m not stupid. He’s one of you, even if he is just a kid.”

Just then Nathan appeared out of the back room, and Conklin’s arm shot up, his gun now uncertainly trained on the healer. Nathan leapt backward a bit and instinctively raised his hands.

“Mr. Conklin, it’s me!” Nathan yelped, surprised. “Don’t shoot!”

Conklin blinked, hesitantly lowered the gun a bit. Nathan cast a questioning look at Josiah, who locked eyes with him and said quietly, “He’s hurt. Vin shot him.”

“Vin?” Nathan asked as he walked toward Conklin, who was sitting down heavily in the pew next to him, sweat glistening on his white face. Nathan stopped a few feet from him, said, “Now, Mr. Conklin, I need to get that jacket off to look at your arm, and to do that I need you to put down that gun. Can you do that for me?”

Conklin eyed Nathan suspiciously, almost put the gun down. Nathan smiled reassuringly and said, “Come on, Mr. Conklin, it’s me. I ain’t gonna hurt you, I just wanna look at that arm.”

“Well...” Conklin finally laid the gun on the pew, winced as Nathan gently took the bloodstained arm of the jacket and began to pull it off.

“You say Vin did this?” Nathan asked as he laid the jacket aside and picked a pair of scissors out of his pocket.

Conklin nodded, grimacing as Nathan touched a sore spot. “I was attempting to arrest some thieves behind the jewelry store, and Mr. Tanner tried to interfere. Thanks to my quick thinking, however, he didn’t get away.”

“Hm.” Nathan finished cutting the sleeve away, began to inspect the wound itself, a deep gash on Conklin’s arm. “You arrest him?”

“You bet I did.” Conklin nodded in self-satisfaction. “He’ll stand trial as soon as the judge gets here. I have a witness who saw the whole thing.”

“You do?” Josiah asked in surprise. “Who?”

“Businessman, from out of town. Ow!” Conklin jerked his arm, sighed and settled back down. “He was out walking, saw Mr. Tanner try and take me out. Plain as day.”  
Josiah scratched his beard. “He’ll swear to this in a court of law? What’s his name?”

Conklin frowned threateningly at Josiah. “I won’t tell you any more. I don’t want your kind harassing my witnesses! Just leave him alone, or you’ll be joining your friend in jail.”

Josiah and Nathan traded looks, and Nathan said, “Looks like you just been grazed, Mr. Conklin. Bullet didn’t come close to goin’ in. It’ll hurt, but you’ll be fine.”

“Oh?” Conklin looked disappointed it wasn’t more serious. “You’re sure?”

Nathan tried not to smile too much. “Yep. Hold on, I’ll get you a clean bandage.”

“I’ll get them,” Josiah said, his serious gray eyes not moving from Conklin’s face, that scowl. Then he moved away, into the back room.

Conklin watched him go, whispered to Nathan, “You know, Nathan, I always knew you were a better man than to get mixed up with this gang of Larabee’s. Just wanted you to know, I won’t be asking you to leave.”

Nathan kept his eyes on tending to Conklin’s wound, replied, “I appreciate that, Mr. Conklin.”

“I thought you would.” Conklin sat for a moment, said wistfully, “You know, I always wondered what it felt like to get shot.”

“Hurts, don’t it?” Nathan said as sympathetically as he could.

Conklin made a face. “I should have known better. Should never have turned my back on that renegade.”

Nathan bit his lip, said nothing.

“They’re all alike,” Conklin went on, ignoring the smoldering look in Nathan’s eyes. “First Larabee beats that boy half to death, and now Tanner tries to shoot me. No loyalty, no respect for life at all.”

Nathan still said nothing.

“And the funny thing is,” Conklin said with a raspy chuckle, “is that Mr. Dunne still defended that scoundrel. Called him a ‘great man’! Can you imagine? I guess that knock he got rattled his brains right out of his head.” He paused, then said, “Oh, you might want to look in on him, after you’re done with me. I think he was having a seizure or something.”

Nathan stopped what he was doing, peered at Conklin in alarm. “What?”

“Um - ” Conklin stammered a bit, then said, “Well, while we were talking about Mr. Larabee beating him up, he kind of went pale and kind of started shaking.”

“And you left him alone like that?” Nathan stood up straight now, and glared at Conklin openly.

“Hell, no!” Conklin said defensively. “That Wilmington fellow was with him. There’s another fine one for you. He seemed to know what he was doing, so I left. What could I do, anyway?”

Nathan gaze was very intent, and a little frightened. “Mr. Conklin, you sayin’ JD told you Chris beat him up?”

“Well, I mentioned it first I think,” Conklin said. “Why? What difference does it make?”

Josiah reappeared with a white bandage, noticed Nathan’s tense posture and asked, “What is it?”

Nathan grabbed the bandage out of Josiah hands, said urgently, “Get to my room quick. Conklin told JD that Chris hurt him. I think he’s gonna need some help. I’ll be there quick as I can.”

Josiah took a deep breath, didn’t waste a look at Conklin, nodded and hurried out.

Conklin glared at the path the preacher had taken. “He better not be thinking of breaking Tanner out. Townsend’s watching the jail, and we have enough people to make sure Larabee’s gang doesn’t cause trouble.”

Nathan sighed, picked up the bandage and began to gently wind it around the reddening wound. As he did, he asked in an voice struggling for politeness, “What about the other gang?”

Conklin wrinkled his face. “Huh?”

“The other gang. The one robbin’ the jewelry store.”

“Oh.” Conklin’s eyes darted to the floor in embarrassment, then he shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. “Um - just a bunch of kids out for some fun. I let them off the hook. This time. Probably never see them again.”

  
  


Durning walked casually up the alleyway toward the hotel, hands in his pockets. Tims tried to look just as unconcerned but was failing miserably; he’d turned his trouser pockets inside out several times, and was at that moment fiddling nervously with his pocket watch.

People were starting to come out into the streets, whispering and asking questions. As they wandered down the alleyway, Durning shot Tims a nasty look. “For cryin’ out loud, Tims, simmer down, will ya? You’ll have every eye on us in a second.”

“I can’t help it,” Tims whined, his eyes bugging out of his head. “What if we get caught? What if Concho rats on us? What if - ”

“Oh, shut up,” Durning growled in annoyance, looking around the alleyway, “We’re free and clear. I’m a witness, remember?”

“Yeah, I do,” Tims said sharply. “A witness to something that didn’t even happen!”

“Oh, yes, it did,” Durning growled, turning suddenly and grabbing Tims’ lapel. “It did and I saw the whole thing. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Got it?”

Tims stared at Durning for a moment, shocked, then reached up and yanked the other man’s hand off his lapel. “Jeez, Durning,” he said in surprised dismay. “What’s gotten into you? You’re turning into a real hooligan.”

Durning shrugged off the suggestion, scanned the alley as they came near the stable, where the lone lamp still shone. “Wonder where the others went.”

“We’re right here,” Childers’ voice piped up behind them. Tims jumped, and Durning turned to see Childers and Sherson walking up behind them, their clothes rumpled and their hair mussed.

“Huh.” Durning looked the men up and down. “You didn’t get caught either?”

“Nah,” Sherson shook his head. “They forgot about us. Too busy trying to kill each other.”

“That was an accident,” Tims moaned. “It happened when I saw the long-hair fellow making to shoot at you guys. I didn’t even know I was going to rush him till I did it.”

“Yeah, well...good job, Tims.” Sherson smiled and gave Tims a whack on the shoulder. “Got him off our backs, anyway.”

“And right into the town jail.” Durning said triumphantly.

Childers crossed his arms, looked at Durning. “So now what?”

“We go back to the hotel,” Durning said obviously, shrugging hugely, “We were just out for a walk, saw the long-haired guy shoot the sheriff, and now we’re going back, nothing to it.”

“Then what?” Sherson asked. “We can’t stay here.”

“And why not?” A new voice asked, and Durning turned to see Concho Charles step from the shadows.

“Huh.” Durning commented. “You got away too, huh?”

“Obviously,” Concho smiled, “Well, gentlemen, not quite a success, but still, I must thank you.”

“For what?” Tims asked in curiosity. “We didn’t get in.”

“No, but you accomplished something much, much better.” Concho took out a cheroot, lit it, and took a slow puff before continuing, “Thanks to your associate’s little...mishap, the sheriff is wounded and Tanner is in jail. And if I read my bleating sheep correctly, by this time tomorrow the other hired guns will be gone as well. So, I must say thank you. And I’d like to invite you to stay a while longer.”

“For what?” Childers asked.

Concho took another drag, began to pace a little. “For a chance of a lifetime. You gentlemen are just passing through, I know, but take my word for it, Four Corners used to be a veritable paradise for men such as myself. I had a huge following here, it was a perfect place to base my operations. Then Larabee and his friends showed up, and I had to move my men out of town.”

“And now Larabee’s gone.” Durning noted.

Concho nodded, still smiling. “Of course, he might come back, and until tonight I thought I’d have to content myself with a little petty thievery in the interim. But now that’s changed. With Tanner in jail, and the town up in arms over Larabee’s drunken rampage, well...let’s just say I’d hate to be one of Larabee’s men right now. They’re not popular.”

“And that Conklin fellow got shot, didn’t he?” Sherson asked.

Concho nodded, and sighed. “That’s two sheriffs in one week. The tourist trade is bound to suffer. But, once Larabee’s men are driven out there won’t be any law here at all.”

Durning shook his head. “But what about that Travis, the judge who’s coming here? I heard he’s federal.”

“Well, that’s the beauty of this whole affair,” Concho said lightly. “See, I didn’t think there was anything I could do about Travis’ arrival. But there’s another whole day to go until he can get here, and I have over fifty men at my hideout just waiting to take this place over again. With Tanner in jail, that leaves only four lawmen, and I can deal with them very easily, if I have to at all. The good people of this town may remove them first, in which case you’ll see an approach of outlaws like a plague of locusts. The judge will be dead if he sets foot near the place.”

Durning crossed his arms. “So why are you telling us this?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” Concho raised his eyebrows. “I’m giving you gentlemen a rare opportunity. I can guarantee you’ll never have another chance to ransack a town that lies so helpless as this one. I can tell you’re aching to bust out of those business suits, and you’ve all got talent I can use, so here is your chance.”

Concho took another puff on his cigar as the men looked at each other. Tims backed away and rapidly shook his head. “You can count me out. I’ve had enough of all this.”

The others looked at him as Childers added, “I’m not so sure either. You get caught, you’ll probably get one of your gang to bust you out. We get caught, we’re going down the river. And why should we trust you anyway?”

“Oh, you shouldn’t,” Concho asserted, blowing a thin cloud of blue smoke into the still night air, “But you don’t have to. We don’t make promises to each other, so there are none to break. I’m merely advertising, to use one of your phrases. Making you aware of what this fine city has to offer you.”

Durning considered this, and looked at the others. Sherson was considering it too, and Childers was wavering. Tims was still backing away, his face pale.

Concho looked at the boardwalk. “Oh, I understand. You gentlemen need an - an incentive? You give out samples, don’t you? Well, here.”

And Concho pulled a bag out of his coat pocket and poured its contents into his gloved hand.

“Jesus Christ!” Childers breathed, glancing behind himself quickly to make sure no one was around. A small pile of jewels glistened in Concho’s glove, rubies and sapphires and diamonds, all twinkling and shimmering in beguiling colors.

“Just a sample, gentlemen,” Concho said, quickly shunting the gems back into the bag. “But there’s much more where that came from.”

“The jewelry store?” Durning asked, an avaricious gleam in his eye.

“The jewelry store,” Concho answered evenly. “By this time tomorrow, we can go in through the front door if we like. I have the word out to my men, they should be arriving all day. Not in one group, that would draw too much attention, but slowly. By the time the sun goes down again I shall own this town, and my friends will have the run of it.”

Concho emphasized ‘friends’, a maneuver that was not lost on the men present.

Durning leaned back, stroked his chin. “What do you guys think?”

“I don’t know,” Childers muttered, his eyes gleaming at the bag Concho held, but his manner unsure. “It’s pretty risky.”

“And being a salesman isn’t,” Concho observed.

Sherson shrugged. “What have we got to go home for?” he asked rhetorically.

Tims cocked his head, then shook it vigorously. “Bertha would kill me.”

The other men laughed scornfully. Concho said, “My friend, your wife - I’m assuming Bertha is

your wife - would most definitely not kill you if you came home with a fur coat, or a diamond necklace. In fact, she might be very grateful.”

There was an insidious glint in Concho’s eyes as he said this, and Tims noticed it, but didn’t know what it meant.

Concho sighed, pocketed the bag and waved his cheroot. “Well, I have to go. Don’t look for me tomorrow, I’ll be at my hideout getting things organized. But you might notice the town getting a little...hmm, let’s say more colorful. Don’t be alarmed, though. I’ll tell them not to hurt you.”

Durning eyed him. “Gee, thanks.”

“My pleasure.” Concho began to walk away, then turned around. “Oh, by the way, should you decide not to join me, please don’t do anything foolish like mention that you know me to Conklin or Larabee’s men. I’ll find out, and you won’t like the way you die when I do.”

The men nodded dumbly. Tims turned green.

Concho gave an elegant smile. “Good evening.” And melted back into the shadows.

The men watched him go, then Childers sighed. “Well, we’re in it now. What do you guys think?”

Sherson and Durning looked at each other. Durning shrugged. “Three lawmen don’t sound like much against fifty men.”

“Yeah, but what if Larabee comes back?” Childers suggested.

Sherson made a face. “Maybe he won’t.”

“Even if he does,” Durning added, “he’s finished here. The town’ll see to that. They’ll tear him apart for what he did.”

“Yeah.” Tims gulped, then said, “Hey, I wonder how that kid he beat up is doing, anyway.”

Durning paused, then began walking in the direction of the hotel as he shrugged again and retorted, “Jesus, Tims. Who the hell cares?”

  
  


Josiah hurried to Nathan’s room, dodging the curious looks of passersby as he walked swiftly along the boardwalks. No one had stopped him to ask about the shooting, and he was thankful for that; in his present state, he was unsure how he’d react to a question, or a threat.

Lamps were coming on, people were out on the street in their nightclothes whispering in huddled groups, and the sight made Josiah’s stomach knot. Something was happening, it was in the air, the tide was turning against them, him and the other men. But he didn’t care about that, it didn’t matter to him at all in that moment if they boarded up the church tomorrow and asked him to leave. He would, and gladly, but first there was someone who needed his help. And Josiah didn’t know how to give it.

It was odd, as if there was a bad charm in the air that night. Josiah’s eyes flicked to the jail as he passed it, and his stomach knotted further. Vin in jail, Vin shot Mr. Conklin, why? How? Josiah knew Vin, at least well enough to know what he was capable of, but Conklin had a witness. There was something not right about that either. But Vin could take care of himself, so Josiah let it go. For the moment.

Nathan’s room was just ahead. A light on, Josiah took the stairs two at a time. There seemed to be a dark cloud around the place, something pushing him away, and Josiah fought it, fought his own fear, and suddenly words came to his mind, as clear as if he were reading them at that moment:

I implore you by God, do not torment me. Crying out, in a loud voice. Do not torment me.

Josiah reached the door and put his hand on it. He swore he could feel something through the wood, an awful struggle, pain and anguish coursing through the betrayed soul of a nineteen-year-old boy. Josiah felt powerless to help, but he was needed.

Someone was imploring.

Josiah pushed the door open, and went inside.

  
  


  
  


There was only one light on in Nathan’s room, the lamp by JD’s bed, and in the round glow of that lamp Josiah saw Buck hunched forward, one hand on JD’s arm, the other wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. The youth looked pale, and unconscious in a way Josiah had not seen since JD first woke up the day before. Buck glanced up at Josiah, a quick glance with a world of anxiety in it. Then his eyes went back to the bed.

“What happened?” Josiah asked softly as he moved to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the bed. JD’s face looked worse close up, as if he’d slid backwards from the improvement he’d been showing. The bruises looked almost black, and his face was paste-colored and twitched as Buck dabbed the cloth. He looked like he was having a nightmare.

Buck didn’t talk for a moment, then in a low, dangerous voice asked, “You see that fool Conklin?”

Josiah nodded, his eyes going to Buck.

“Damn him.” Buck growled.

Josiah leaned closer, laid a gentle hand on JD’s head. The boy flinched away and gasped, but did not wake up. Josiah started a bit, felt a flush a guilt as he brought his hand back down.

“He’s been like this since Conklin left,” Buck said in a tight, distressed tone. “He won’t come out of it.”

Josiah nodded, sat back, didn’t know what else to do. Finally he said, “You see Conklin’s arm?”

Buck’s expression turned to one of confusion, and he shook his head. “Why?”

“He was shot.” Josiah said heavily. “By Vin.”

Buck’s eyes darted up, and his head came back in surprise. “Vin! What for?”

Josiah sat forward, shook his head. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t look good. Vin’s in the jail. Conklin told me he’s got a witness.”

Buck shook his head, looking at JD’s troubled face sadly as he placed the cloth on the boy’s forehead. “Damn.”

“Conklin’s mighty upset.” Josiah understated, “Likely he’ll be askin’ for our resignations come sunrise.”

“Well, he can have mine.” Buck said firmly

Josiah nodded, looked at JD with concern. The youth’s breathing was growing more rapid and frightened, and he was muttering under his breath.

“Easy there, JD,” Buck whispered soothingly, setting the cloth aside so he had both hands free. JD began to move around in the narrow bed, as if he was struggling against something.

Josiah stood up. Buck laid his hands on JD’s shoulders to keep him from thrashing too much, but the youth cried out in his sleep and with his good hand shoved the gunslinger away.

Buck blinked at Josiah, startled, and the preacher leaned down to JD and said softly, “It’s okay, son. JD? Wake up, now.”

JD’s hand went unconsciously to the black row of stitches in his hair, and suddenly he flung himself straight up in the bed, opening his eyes with a hoarse shout. Josiah caught him as he began to fall out of the bed, and Buck rapidly sat down again and placed a steadying hand on JD’s back.

“Easy, JD,” Josiah said gently as JD stared ahead in shock, his whole body trembling in Josiah’s grasp. He breathed in huge, terrified gulps of air, and his scratched hand went from his hair to cling to Josiah in half-conscious terror.

Buck leaned toward his young friend’s flushed, sweating face with its horrible dark bruise. “JD?”

The youth blinked, seemed to come back to himself. His grip on Josiah relaxed a little, and he gazed at Buck for a moment, and Buck felt his stomach drop at the blankness in those eyes.

But then JD blinked again, and said in a trembling whisper, “Buck?”

“Yeah.” Buck smiled in relief, and patted JD on the back. “You were having another nightmare, kid.”

Josiah eased the boy back onto the pillows. JD shook his head and ran his fingers through his black hair.

“No,” he said softly, in a voice thick with unbidden tears. “No, it was...” He hesitated, looked at Josiah and Buck with uncertain fear.

“What is it, son?” Josiah asked, folding his hands in his lap, but not moving from where he sat on the edge of the bed.

JD paused. “It’s bad.”

“Like we haven’t known bad lately.” Buck commented wryly.

JD didn’t smile, closed his eyes and ran his hand over them. “No, it’s really bad. I...” He sighed in a forlorn way and bit his lip. “I remember what happened to me.”

Josiah and Buck looked at each other. Josiah leaned forward a little and put a steadying hand on JD’s arm. “You don’t have to talk about it, JD.”

“No, I do,” the youth insisted, looking at Josiah with a mixture of fear and determination on those beaten features. “Because it’s - it’s about Chris.”

Buck leaned forward, his mind racing to figure out how to make this as easy as possible on the boy. “What about Chris?”

“Something’s wrong with him,” JD said quickly, his dark eyes flashing with urgency. “He’s been...I don’t know, poisoned or something. You said he went to find the person who attacked me?”

Buck sat back a little, rubbed his moustache. “Um, well - ”

“See, he doesn’t know,” JD said, alarm in his eyes as he struggled to push himself up in the bed. “He doesn’t remember, it was him. Chris is the one who attacked me.”

JD looked at Buck and Josiah as if expecting incredulity or ridicule over such an absurd notion, and was a bit surprised to see both men just looking at him, serious and unmoving. But the memories were tumbling out of him now, and in his excitement he let it pass.

“I remember,” JD continued, settling against the pillows, his face becoming animated as he talked. “I think...I remember the bartender coming to get me, he said - he told me Chris was acting funny, and the bartender was scared about him. And I...” JD paused, pursed his lips as he thought very hard for a moment. “I kind of got half-dressed, and went out into the alley, and I found him staggering around, but he didn’t recognize me.” He stopped again, stared at the coverlet while his good hand brushed black strands of hair out of his eyes.

Josiah and Buck looked at each other again, and Buck read his own emotion in Josiah’s eyes: dread. After a few moments, Josiah said. “You recall what h - ”

“I know the bartender said Chris was drunk,” JD interrupted, his youthful voice full of certainty, “But there was something funny about it, I mean, he didn’t even know who I was. And he looked at me like...well, like I was his worst enemy or something. I thought maybe I’d go get one of you guys to help me out, and I almost went, but then Chris tripped over something and I thought he was going to hurt himself. I put my hand on his shoulder and he just - ” JD broke off a third time, shrugged with one shoulder and said in a much smaller voice. “- snapped.”

Josiah sighed, looked down at his hands. Buck felt some of that old rage returning, the fury that made him want to find Chris and break him in half. He swallowed it down, pushed at it until it was just a flat, painful space in his gut, and held it there. Chris he would deal with later. JD needed him now.

Josiah patted JD’s bound arm and said reassuringly, “Sorry you had to go through that, son. You’ve given us a scare, and that’s a fact.”

JD looked up at him, puzzled. “Well - don’t you guys think we should go find Chris? I mean, he’s out there looking for the person who attacked me, and it was him! He’s - I don’t know, maybe somebody put something in his drink, or you know, I’ve heard of some drugs they have out here? They make you crazy, maybe that’s it.”

More traded looks, a bit more uneasy this time. Buck edged closer to his young friend. “JD, you don’t remember Chris bein’ drunk when he hit you?”

JD cocked his head and gave Buck an exasperated look. “Well, Buck, I ain’t stupid! Yes, he was drunk, but just bein’ drunk don’t make a man attack his friends! It had to be more than that, right? I mean, look at me, Chris wouldn’t have beaten me up like this if he knew who I was - I mean, he broke my collarbone! Look at these bruises I got on my arm! I can’t walk, for pete’s sake! Chris wouldn’t do things like this to a friend of his, unless he was under some kind of drug, or something. Right?”

Buck looked down, then back up at those hazel eyes fixed on Buck, so sure of Chris’ invincibility. Even in the face of unflinching memory. Against all evidence, all reason. Even then, Chris was still blameless. Remarkable.

But Buck didn’t answer JD’s question, so the youth turned away from him, to Josiah. “Right, Josiah?”

JD gave Josiah a pleading look, and Josiah paused, looked away so he wouldn’t have to deal with that stubborn hope that was looking to him for a reassurance he couldn’t give.

When Josiah didn’t answer right away, JD’s face fell a little bit, and his eyes darted between them nervously as he said, “Did something else happen? Something I haven’t remembered yet?”

Buck looked up. “JD - “

“Dammit, Buck!” JD pounded a fist into the covers, his expression rapidly shifting to one of angry frustration. “I’m sick of everybody treating me like a child. I may be - I may be beat up, but I ain’t a baby. And I wanna know.”

Buck sighed. Josiah ran one hand across his chin.

JD’s face turned white. “Is Chris dead?”

Josiah’s hand dropped quickly. “No, JD. No, he’s - ”

“Then what is it?” JD started to shake again, this time in impotent fury. “There’s something you don’t want to tell me, something about Chris? About me?” He looked at Buck, angry, insulted, imploring, his hazel eyes flashing as he spoke. “I wanna know, Buck. What is it?”

Buck looked down at his hands, folded in front of him. But he didn’t know what to say.

“JD.”

Josiah’s voice was soft as down as he spoke, and in an instant JD was staring at him with huge, questioning eyes.

“Chris knew.” Josiah’s eyes were steady, locked into the youth’s as he talked in the quietest tone. “Not when it happened, but after. He came to me, right before he left. He was drunk, he told me so. Just drunk.”

JD’s eyes went wide, then back down again, and he shook his head defiantly, that black hair once more flopping into his eyes. “No, that can’t be it. He - he...”

“He was very sorry,” Josiah continued, praying for strength all the time. “He thought you were his enemies, people he’s fought against, like Fowler and that warden in the prison. He didn’t realize it was you till it was over.”

JD’s eyes studied the coverlet, his eyebrows together in wracked confusion. “Well, then he - he still didn’t - did he get me to Nathan’s?”

“No,” Buck said, in a voice as low and soft as he could manage. “Me and Nathan did that.”

JD glanced at him, frowning, then looked back at Josiah. His expression was shifting, still clinging to shreds of optimism, but confused. “Well, where was Chris?”

Buck felt the anger rise again, shoved it back down. “He went home. To sleep it off.”

JD blanched, for just a moment, then he stared at Buck and Josiah in a way that reminded Buck of the first time JD awoke after the accident; his eyes were glazed, terrified, like a trapped animal’s.

“No,” JD said firmly as he shook his head. “No, that’s - that’s wrong, Chris is - he helps people, he doesn’t just - just beat them up and leave them in the street, I mean, not m - not any of us, we’re his friends. He...he wouldn’t...”

JD’s words hung in the air, the wavering astonishment in them searing Buck like a red-hot knife. He knew he was witnessing the shattering of JD’s most fondly held illusion, that Chris was perfect, and it killed him to have to see it. Josiah could almost hear the pedestal cracking, crumbling, falling to the earth with a deafening crash. He looked at JD, drew close when he saw the horrified betrayal in those gigantic hazel eyes, on that battered face. JD flinched away from him, then immediately looked ashamed.

Without looking at Buck or Josiah, JD asked in a voice choked with tears, “Did Chris really leave town?”

Josiah gave a solemn nod. “He had to. Too many folks around here want him hung.”

JD’s head came up sharply, and he stared at Josiah open-mouthed for a moment. Then he said, “Conklin. He - he had my badge on.”

“Yeah.” Buck cleared his throat, “He’s kind of - taken over, temporarily.”

JD seemed to shrink against the pillows, grow smaller as he pondered this. Finally, after a long moment’s silence, he whispered, “I’m not sheriff anymore?”

“It’s just for a while,” Buck hastened to reassure him, and a sudden memory came, the first time Buck went to see JD after the boy had taken on the job, a cocky smile, utter confidence, I don’t care what you say, Buck, I still ain’t changing my hat.

Buck winced at the thought, glanced at JD. The boy looked devastated.

Then JD laughed, a bitter chuckle, and picked at the coverlet. “Well, I guess that makes sense. I mean, who ever heard of a crippled sheriff, huh?”

There was a thickness to those words, a weight of sorrow that Buck had never heard in JD’s voice before, and he realized with a wrench in his gut that JD was thinking a lot of things he wasn’t about to share. Wrong things.

Hurriedly, Buck edged his chair closer and tried to sound cheerful. “Now, don’t go talkin’ like that, JD. This is just for the time bein’, see? You’ll be up in no time, and - “

“Oh, save it, Buck.” JD turned to Buck, and he looked years older. “Just...I want to be alone, all right?”

Buck looked at Josiah, who lifted himself off the bed and asked, “Nathan should be here soon. Would you mind if we sat with you till then?”

JD’s eyes returned to the coverlet, and his face was flushed with emotion. He blinked several times, as if fighting back tears, then said, “I don’t care, I just...I don’t want to talk any more. I’m tired.”

Buck nodded numbly, and was amazed at how awful he felt for JD. He felt angry too, a hot anger against a world that would gut somebody’s hopes like that. It made him want to hit somebody, and he got up to walk it off by opening a window. On the way he kicked something on the floor and looked down. There, a few inches in front of his boot, Buck saw a ragged dime novel, thrown on the floor in haste a half hour before, when he’d come in and found Conklin standing at the foot of JD’s bed and JD looking like death itself. An obviously much-loved book, torn and used, a six-shooting hero blazing on the cover in a world that had existed once for JD, but not anymore. Not anymore, forever.

Buck looked up at JD, but the youth hadn’t moved, kept picking at the coverlet, fringes of black hair hanging unheeded in his eyes, shut off from his friends and the world. JD’s heart was broken into a million painful pieces, and there was nothing Buck could do.

Except tenderly pick up the book, and the other books that were scattered forgotten on the rough wooden floor, minding their ripped covers and half-falling-out pages, and gently place them on Nathan’s desk, before going on his way to open the window.

  
  


Mary Travis was sleeping in the small bedroom that occupied the back room of her newspaper office. She was exhausted, and needed to sleep deeply and peacefully, but her sleep was troubled and full of nightmarish visions: JD, battered and bleeding against a too-red brick wall; Chris, no longer a human being but a snarling, uncontrollable animal, chased away from her by the ghostly apparitions of the townspeople who, in her dreams, turned on her as well. And over it all, woven through her disturbed mind like a dark thread, a formless terror, a relentless awareness that everything was changing, vanishing, that the earth was falling from beneath her feet, and she couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t -

Mary opened her eyes, stared into the moonlit darkness of her bedroom. Something had awakened her, she realized drowsily; what was it?

There it was again. Someone was knocking on the front door of her office.

Mary struggled to wake up enough to get out of the narrow bed. No, not knocking, pounding, hammering almost frantically. She looked at her small bedside clock; twelve-thirty. Groping for her robe in the darkness, Mary found it, pulled it over her nightgown as the knocking continued, and hurriedly padded through her darkened office toward the double doors.

The knocking stopped as soon as Mary unlocked the door. Opening it, she was surprised to see Gloria Potter, fully dressed, and looking very upset. Before Mary could get a word out of her startled mind, Gloria almost pushed past her into the unlit office and swiftly closed the door.

Before Mary could find her voice to protest, Mrs. Potter said in heavy tones, “Mr. Tanner’s been arrested.”

Mary hummed with shock. No, wait a minute, maybe she was still dreaming. Rubbing her eyes, she said the only thing she could think of. “What?”

Gloria paused, then looked around the gloom, which was relieved only by the dim moonlight in the streets outside. Quickly, the older woman caught up a lantern that was sitting on a nearby table and, taking a match from a nearby box, lit it.

Mary squinted against the sudden bright light, but Gloria seemed to be unaffected by it as she turned up the wick. Her face was stern, set as she repeated, “Mr. Tanner’s been taken to the jail for shooting Mr. Conklin.”

Now Mary was fully awake, and stunned. She gaped at her friend. “Shooting Mr. - are you sure?”

Gloria nodded soberly. “I was up doing my books when I heard a gunshot from down the street. I went out to see what happened, and saw Mr. Townsend taking Mr. Tanner to the jail. He told me Mr. Tanner interfered with Mr. Conklin’s lawkeeping duties and shot him when he tried to do his job.”

Mary felt like laughing, but her stomach hurt too much. She fought for words, merely gasped for a few moments before saying, “Oh, now - now that’s just absurd, Gloria! You and I both know Mr. Tanner would never do such a thing.”

“We do.” Gloria said flatly, “But they don’t. I saw some men by the saloon giving Mr. Tanner the evil eye when we all went past. And Mr. Conklin isn’t going to let this matter set till the judge gets into town, I can promise you that. Mr. Tanner’s friends will be hard put to keep him from getting hung.”

Mary blanched, stared at her friend for some reassurance, but found none. She sputtered, “Oh, my God. What can we do?”

“Nothing.” Gloria sighed. “Nothing but pray that nothing happens until tomorrow, when Orin arrives. And once Conklin is finished driving the rest of Mr. Larabee’s men out , pray that the outlaws don’t notice we’ll hardly have law in this town.”

“Oh.” Mary sighed helplessly, and for no reason she could think of began to look around her office, as if the answers to this sudden crisis were in there somewhere. No, she couldn’t stand around while this was happening, she couldn’t just stand there while - suddenly she turned around and began almost running toward her room.

Gloria caught her arm, gently but firmly. “What are you doing?”

Mary looked at her, confused. “Why, I’m - I’ve got to go to the jail, get Mr. Tanner out. Mr. Townsend respects me, he’ll understand if I tell him it was all a - “

“No.” Gloria’s grip tightened, her face stern in the dim lantern light.

Mary fought her hold, getting angry now. “Gloria, I can help Vin! Conklin’s a suspicious old fool - ”

“Listen to me!” Gloria’s hand became an iron vise, and Mary winced under its clench as Gloria said, “You can’t be seen helping Mr. Tanner, or any of them. Conklin’s a fool, but he’s running things right now, and if you cross him you’ll be next.”

Mary’s eyes widened; but she shook her head. “Gloria, that’s crazy! Everybody here knows me, they wouldn’t turn me out, not with the newspaper and - ”

“You’ll lose the newspaper,” Gloria said with finality. “They’ll come in here with torches and burn this place to the ground before the judge even gets here. They’re scared, Mary, and Conklin is making them more scared. He’s already got the town fathers half-convinced you’re a starry-eyed fool hypnotized by Mr. Larabee into helping him escape. They think you’re in cahoots with him.”

Mary’s jaw hit the floor, she was sure of it. “Gloria, that’s - Chris didn’t escape! He left out of concern for his own safety!”

“And he was right to do so.” Gloria finally relaxed her hold on Mary’s arm, stood back a bit and regarded her sadly. “Sometimes I’m ashamed to live in such a small-minded town. Lord knows I don’t want my children to grow up like these narrow-minded people. But we have to be careful, Mary, you and me and the folks who don’t think this is right. We have to keep our distance, not give them any more reason to suspect us too. And it won’t be easy.”

Mary nodded blindly. She had a horrible headache. She cast her eyes around the office, flickering golden in the lantern light, and a sudden, horrible image came, flames and curling paper, smoke and the hiss of burning wood, everything she and Stephen had, gone.

Gloria looked at the floor, pursed her lips, then said, “I’m sorry, Mary, I really am. You’ve given a lot to this town. You don’t deserve what’s happening to you.”

Mary gazed around the office again, the lantern throwing huge shadows on the walls, thought of Stephen, and Chris, and JD. Then thought of Vin, sitting in jail, wrongly accused, she was sure of it. But what could she do? If only Stephen was here...

Then she heard, in the corners of her mind, a familiar chuckle. Stephen’s laughter, his voice full of admiration, saying to her as he often had, what do you need a corset for, Mary? Your backbone’s already made of steel.

That’s right, Mary thought in wonder, as if it were dawning on her for the first time. It is, isn’t it...

Gloria noticed the change in Mary’s face, said uncertainly, “Mary? Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” Mary said as if in a dream, not looking at her friend. Then, after a moment, she turned to her friend and her voice was a little stronger as she added, “Yes, Gloria, I did. I did, and you know what? You’re right. I’ve given everything I have for this town and I’ll be damned if I let them squander it because of their stupidity and superstition.” She walked resolutely to her desk, opened drawers, went looking for things.

Gloria stepped closer. “What are you doing, Mary?”

“I run a newspaper, don’t I?” Mary answered, feeling her spirits lifting. Yes, this was it. She found her notebook, grabbed some pens. “I need to write a story about our brave sheriff and his search for truth and justice. Facts, Gloria. Facts!”

Gloria cocked her head. “Now, don’t do anything rash - “

“Why not?” Mary asked archly, “Conklin is. He’s ready to throw this town to the wolves, and for what? To satisfy his own selfish, stupid pride!”

Gloria’s jaw dropped. But she didn’t deny it.

“Well,” Mary said firmly as she flipped through her notebook, “I’m tired of standing by and watching our esteemed city fathers turn Four Corners into a ghost town. If there’s any way at all I can even slow this down, I’m going to do it. Oh, I’ll be decorous and respectful of the men I dare not raise my eyes to, but I’m going to fight this. And I’m going to get this town back from those idiots if it takes the last breath in my body. And don’t you dare tell me there’s nothing I can do, Gloria. Because I won’t believe you.”

  
  


Vin paced slowly back and forth across the small space in his cell, and thought.

Gerald had brought him there not an hour before, and already Vin was restless, frantic to get out. But no, some dramatic jailbreak would only make things worse. And they did not need worse right now.

Vin had taken off his hat and jacket and tossed them into the corner. As he walked in circles in the small cell he ran one hand repeatedly through his long hair. He glanced up; of course, Gerald was watching him. Vin knew he scared the man, actually felt a little sorry for him. It wasn’t any kind of love of the law or desire to see things set right that had made Gerald Townsend take the deputy’s position, and Vin knew it. It was common fear, and pride, and a stubborn belief that even an ignorant towns person was a better peace keeper than a hired gun. That was a lie, and Gerald knew it, but he wasn’t about to let on that he did. He’d keep putting on the front, giving Vin a little half-hearted glare every so often, then sit at the sheriff’s desk and rustle papers, pretending he was doing something. It was all a sham, and the nonsense of it made Vin angry.

_But you played right into it._ Vin sighed as he sat down heavily on the cot and rubbed his face. One stupid accident, and you’re the trigger-happy outlaw Conklin always thought you were. A self-serving ‘witness’ and Conklin’s pride are all it takes to put you on the unwelcome end of a hangman’s noose. Chris isn’t around to pick on; guess you’ll have to do.

Chris. Vin sat back on the cot, groaned a bit as the reality of everything that had happened in the last three days swept over him. How in the hell had things gotten so insane? It couldn’t have been just last week that they’d had that all-night poker game, could it? No, it had been too happy. Vin remembered Chris and Buck sharing some laugh at JD’s expense, something about women, and JD had turned to Nathan for support, but the healer had said only that the youth should take gambling tips from Ezra. Everybody saw the way your face fell when you saw you didn’t even have a jack, Nathan had joked. And everyone had laughed.

Had they? Was that possible? Vin stared mildly at the metal bars that now marked the limits of his freedom. Yes, they had. It had been a good time, seven men who a year ago wouldn’t have looked at each other twice on the street, enjoying some company and poker and a little pretending that life wasn’t so bad.

A week? Impossible. It was a lifetime ago.

Vin sat and thought that he could now say he hadn’t had a pleasant thought in four days. Just darkness and rumination. What to do, how to keep things from falling apart, and what are you going to do, Vin, when Chris comes back? Now, there’s a good question. Say you get out of this; say the witness recants, the judge shows up and lets you out, but there’s Chris standing on the outskirts of town. Who will he be now that this has happened? What frame of mind will he be in? Buck had ranted that Chris had denied that he ever hurt JD, then it was JD’s fault for trying to help him. Josiah had said Chris was full of guilt and remorse. So who would come back? The stubborn, rampaging drunk, or the hollow-eyed, crushed penitent? And could either of them survive for long?

The door to the jailhouse opened, and Vin looked up to see two men enter, apparently a little drunk. Gerald, who had been reading a magazine at the desk, looked up at them uncertainly and asked, “Um - can I help you?”

“You sure can!” the taller of the two men slurred, waving an arm toward the window. “You’re the law, right? You got to tell this son of a bitch that that is my horse he is attempting to steal, and put it right.”

“Your horse, hell!” the shorter man bellowed, putting two unsteady hands on the desk and leaning far enough forward to make Gerald want to lean very far back. “I won that horse, fair and square! It’s the truth, judge, so help me Gawd!”

“Um, I’m not a judge,” Gerald corrected, standing up and straightening his vest. “But I’m sure when Mr. Conklin gets back he - ”

“Hell with that!” The taller man burped. “I got to get back home, and this bastard sez I ain’t takin’ his horse! Sez he’s gonna shoot me! Now what are you gonna do about it?”

“Um.” Gerald glanced at Vin, a little helplessly Vin thought. Then blinking, he turned back to the two men and said, “Well, why don’t we just - put that paper down, please - why don’t we go out on the porch where there’s some air, and we can talk about this...”

Vin tried not to smile too much as he watched Gerald herd the two drunk men out of the jail. He was glad to see the men go; it was getting powerful fumy in there.

Gerald had stationed himself right outside the half-open door, and Vin was watching his struggle against the two animatedly intoxicated cowboys when he heard the slight sound of something being jarred. He paused, listened, then realized it was the back door of the jailhouse. A moment later he heard the tiny rasp of the door being opened, and before he could stand up Ezra’s face popped around the corner, his finger to his lips.

Vin glanced toward the door. “Ezra, what the hell are you - ”

Ezra threw Vin a cross look. “Mr. Tanner, do you not know what a finger to the lips means?”

Vin sighed, noticed the gambler’s crouched stance, the watchspring tension in his posture. “What are you doing?”

“Not to worry.” Ezra smiled toward the two drunks. “I paid those two more than sufficiently to keep our erstwhile deputy engaged. They’ll make sure he doesn’t come back until I’ve gone.”

Vin nodded, understanding. He moved closer to the bars, put his hands around them. “What do you hear?”

“Well...” Ezra looked not at Vin, but at the door, his green eyes alert and keen. “You are definitely not a popular person, although there are those who don’t entirely believe the rumors. Including myself, I might add.”

“It was a accident,” Vin whispered. “I caught those four businessmen with Concho Charles, robbin’ the jewelry store. They made to run, and I tried to get off a warning shot, but one of them grabbed me, and it hit Conklin.”

“Hm,” Ezra nodded. “So far your version makes the most sense.”

“I don’t care about the other versions,” Vin said, shaking his head. “Any trouble?”

“Not so far,” Ezra reported. “Although I ‘ve been getting some dark looks from some of the more inebriated saloon patrons since word of your adventure hit the town. I imagine we shall all have an interesting time of it tomorrow.”

“I was afraid of that.” Vin muttered, then his eyes snapped to Ezra’s face. “There’s something you better know.”

The gambler looked over, his eyes showing that he’d heard the urgency in Vin’s voice.

It was in Vin’s eyes too, in every inch of him. “I heard Conklin talkin’ to his deputy. He’s gonna try to get all of you to leave tomorrow.”

Vin knew the news wouldn’t be unexpected. Still, he was a little surprised at how dismayed Ezra looked.

“He was just lookin’ for an excuse,” Vin continued in a tone of self-reproach, looking at his hands. “And I reckon he’s got himself one now.”

“And how does he intend to accomplish this?” Ezra asked apprehensively.

“He told the deputy he’s gonna call a meetin’, first thing in the morning. Likely they’ll be comin’ for your gunbelts by the afternoon.”

Ezra hesitated. Vin waited for one of the gambler’s flip remarks, his usual defense in moments of gloom. But instead Ezra only said softly, “Well, Conklin may try, but I’m afraid the judge will have a word or two to say about it, when he arrives.”

Vin shook his head. “Conklin wants you out by then, he said so. Reckon he don’t want to argue about it with the judge, figures if you’re gone already there won’t be nothing he can do about it.”

Ezra looked like he was trying to think of something reassuring to say, but couldn’t think of anything. Vin felt a great weight inside him, felt defeated, beaten. Beaten...Vin remembered something, leaned forward against the bars and said, “Ezra.”

The gambler looked up, looking a bit startled by the sudden urgent tone in Vin’s voice.

“You gotta take a message to Buck for me. Tell him I’m sorry it went down like this, but he’s got to get JD out of here quick as he can.”

Ezra hesitated, shrugged. “Surely Mr. Jackson’s care is adeq-”

Vin shook his head rapidly. “It’s gonna get bad soon, for all of us. Word of this gets out, and every outlaw who ever had a grudge against Chris or me - or you - ”

Ezra blinked, looked down.

Vin paused, then said, “They’re gonna come down on this place like rain on a cornfield. And JD’s gonna be a perfect target.”

Ezra fell silent as he pondered this.

“What happens to me happens,” Vin said quietly. “But that boy didn’t ask to be the way he is, and anything we can do to make his road easier, I figure we better do. You’ll tell Buck?”

Ezra nodded. Vin sighed, almost felt the shadows on him as he looked down at the floor. _Injustice. Too damn much of it._ After a long pause he heard Ezra’s voice say softly, “Mr. Tanner?”

Vin blinked, shook his head, looked up at Ezra for a moment before saying softly, “Sorry. I just didn’t think it was gonna end like this.”

There was a pause, and Vin continued, his voice melancholy, his face half-lit by the jailhouse lantern. “I figured we could all get past what Chris did, one way or another. And JD...well, we weren’t going to just leave him be. Didn’t count on gettin’ myself put in here. When Chris comes back, won’t be nobody left. Don’t know about you, but I’m gonna miss it.”

Ezra didn’t seem to know what to say. Vin knew he was considering words, considering the possibility that this might be the end of their time together. Chris was gone, or he would come back in disgrace. Vin was in jail. JD was crippled, and he and Buck would soon be gone, probably far away. And the others would be driven out. Vin could read it in the gambler’s face: Ezra never saw it ending this way either.

Ezra seemed to notice Vin’s gaze. He coughed self-conciously, then dug around in his pocket as he said, “Well, it’s a bleak picture to be sure, Mr. Tanner, but bear in mind our time is not over yet. I myself am quite fond of last-minute reprieves, and if you’ll recall we’ve all seen our fair share of them. Perhaps we shall see another.”

Vin regarded Ezra with faint surprise. “Shoot, Ezra. You’re gettin’ as starry-eyed as JD.”

Ezra pulled out his hip flask, smiled a bit as he unscrewed the lid. “If that were the case, I would be only too glad.” He held out the container. “A toast, Mr. Tanner. To second chances.”

Vin eyed the flask, took it and took a long, deep pull.

Ezra smiled as he took the container back. “And to your very swift release.”

He took a drink.

The voices outside grew louder. Vin pulled himself away from the bars. “You’d best get. They catch you in here, who knows what you’ll get charged with.”

“A good point.” Ezra pocketed the flask, paused and looked at Vin. “Mr. Tanner - “

“I’ll be all right.” Vin sighed, hoisting himself onto the cot. “Just take care of JD. And let the others know what I told you.”

Ezra nodded, turned toward the back door of the jail. Then he seemed to have a second thought, and leaning toward the bars one more time he whispered, “A word of advice. Avoid the food here, it’s terrible.”

Vin smiled tightly and looked down at the floor, and when he looked up again the back door of the jail was rasping shut, and Ezra was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

Dawn came, cold and gray. Mary continued to pace the floor as she had been pacing it all night, waiting for the sun to come up so she could go about respectably, and get some answers. Mrs. Potter made them both breakfast, and they ate in silence.

Down the street, Nathan stood at the foot of his bed and looked around his room, that had not been his room for four days. Josiah had gone back to the church. Ezra had appeared briefly, at about two o’clock, and had sensed immediately the change in the air. Nathan had told him what had happened, and Ezra had left again, his face as dark and troubled as Nathan had ever seen it. Buck was dozing in his chair, looking haggard and tense even in sleep. And JD...

The boy was curled up in the covers, coiled into a tight ball that seemed to resist the idea of the sun coming up. Nathan had come in some hours before expecting JD to be, at the least, very upset at the horrific memories he was being forced to recall. Nathan was expecting yelling, crying, maybe ranting against Chris’ uncontrolled rampage. He was unprepared for the stunned silence, the absent, haunted look in the boy’s eyes, the noncommittal answer to every inquiry. Buck and Josiah were quiet, helpless. Finally JD had just meekly turned over and rolled himself up, and gone to sleep. But Nathan could tell it was not the restorative, healthy sleep that JD needed; it was the heavy, burdened slumber of the depressed. And he hadn’t moved in nearly six hours, remained in that soft bundle of escape, only the black fringes of his hair visible.

Nathan prepared for the day, and wondered what to do.

And out in the wilderness, the first cold fingers of daylight stretched across the plains, turning the black night into gray dawn and, sometime in the next hour or so, into bright blue day. It was a chilling time, bleak and frosty, and hidden in the blue shadow of a large rock Chris Larabee sat alone, a stolen piece of paper and half of a broken pencil in his hand, and thought.

His eyes searched the landscape, as if the words he sought were there. They weren’t, of course, and he knew it. He’d been thinking for hours, well, maybe days, about what he was about to write. And now the time had come to write the words, and he still was unsure what to say.

Then he knew exactly what he wanted to say, and wrote it down:

  
  


To whoever finds this,

My name is Chris Larabee. I’m putting this note in my coat pocket, so if you find it you’re likely standing on what was once my ranch. Please bury me in the little graveyard next to the two crosses that are marked Sarah and Adam. They are my wife and son.

After you bury me, go to the Four Corners Clarion and ask for Mrs. Mary Travis. Tell her you are the beneficiary of my estate, and show her this letter. I own this ranch, and what’s in a room I rent in town. This is what I want you to do.

Sell the land my ranch is on. Sell everything in my room. My horse might still be around here somewhere; sell him too.

In Four Corners there may still be some men who I am proud to say I knew. Their names are Vin Tanner, Buck Wilmington, Ezra Standish, Josiah Sanchez, Nathan Jackson, and JD Dunne.

The money you make from the sale of my estate is for JD Dunne’s care and comfort. He was injured through my carelessness and stupidity, and my last wish is that all I own be used to provide for whatever he needs. You may run into a Mr. Darcy Thomas. He has my wedding ring, and instructions like these. Maybe you can work together.

I hope JD Dunne and the others are still in town when you get there. They are all good men. Don’t say my name to them, esp. JD. He might not accept your help.

  
  


Chris paused, swallowed, took a few shaky breaths as he stared out at the wakening prairie. The world seemed fresh and new, or it should have; but Chris felt numb, detached, the words he’d overheard the previous evening still chiming in his head, over and over. Broken ribs, busted collarbone, can’t walk anymore...shipped off to a home...the town’s turned on the rest of the hired guns...people want him dead, including a few of his men...

Chris sighed again, ran his hand through his ragged blond hair. Jesus, it was worse than he’d dreamed in his blackest nightmares. Beyond repair, or redemption. JD crippled. The others driven out, and hating him. Mary, what had happened to her? And all his fault.

But there was one hope. One last, forlorn hope, and it hinged on a man he barely knew. Who didn’t know him at all.

Taking another unsteady breath, Chris continued to write.

  
  


If you meet Mr. Thomas, tell him I wish things had turned out like he wanted them to. Tell him I hope the ring buys JD everything he needs, or wants. He should have it. He should have had a better hero than me.

C.L.

  
  


The sun was coming up in earnest now. Chris blinked at the rising light, squinted against it as if it were blinding him. Then he slowly rose, folded the note he’d just written into his pocket, and mounting his horse pointed the animal toward his final destination: the mountains, and the burned-out ranch that had once been his home.

  
  


The sun had climbed halfway into the midmorning sky as Mary picked up her notebook and set off for the jailhouse. She hoped to find some clues there as to just what had happened, and just how insane the town had gone.

She felt it as soon as she stepped out into the street. It was around nine, and people were going about their business, but there was a hush in the air, as if they were all waiting for something. As she walked down the street, Mary saw some people pointing at her, whispering. Whispering what? That shameful floozy, how dare she associate with - with those men? Mary smiled at the implied insult, thought about how Chris had saved her father-in-law’s life, and her son Billy’s. The others had always helped her out, and Nathan had long been a friend to her. Associate with those men? I’d rather associate with them than you.

How quiet the street was, for so late in the day! Mary passed in front of the telegraph office, almost bumped into a man coming out of it.

“Oh, excuse me!” she said hurriedly, backing up. It was an older man, a man she recognized as Sam Worthington. The man who owned the jewelry store.

“Mr. Worthington,” Mary said quickly, saw him stuffing something in his jacket.

“Mrs. Travis.” the man returned, not looking at her. “I suppose you heard.”

“About Mr. Tanner? Yes, I - ”

“Tanner, hell!” Sam exclaimed, then blushed. “Sorry, ma’am. But - Tanner, nothing! My jewelry store was robbed last night.”

Mary’s jaw dropped.

“Got most of my inventory.” Sam shook his head, took his top hat off to mop his brow. “The safe was the only thing they didn’t run off with.”

“Oh, Sam, that’s terrible!” Mary put a hand on his arm. “Did you tell the sheriff?”

“Huh!” Sam snorted, put his hat back on. “That good-for-nothing Conklin? He’s too busy arresting the only law we got to bother with me.”

Mary removed her hand, put it over her notebook, couldn’t think of what to say.

Sam squinted into the street. “I swear to God, Mary, when Larabee left I was almost glad. He always kind of scared me, I’ll admit it. But I had no idea it would come to this. When I heard Conklin had put Tanner away I came right down here and wired my brother in Tucson.” He looked down at the boardwalk, a look of almost-shame on his face.

Mary knew what it meant. “Sam, you’re not leaving?”

“I got to, Mary,” Sam said earnestly, looking at her with a frustrated expression. “I stuck it out, you know I did. When things were bad, I kept my stock under my bed, with a shotgun right next to it. But then things started to look up, and I thought, well, maybe folks’ll want nice things, things they aren’t afraid some stranger’s gonna shoot ‘em over. But not now. Once Conklin runs the law out, it’ll be every man for himself. And I gotta look after what interests I have left.”

Mary nodded. She couldn’t argue. But - “You know, Sam, Orin will be here tomorrow. Why don’t you wait till then to decide?”

“Come on, Mary,” Sam said sadly, backing away a few paces. “I know it’s hard, but we got to face facts. Orin might come, but he’s only one man. Last time he had help, but not this time. Larabee’s gone, Tanner’s in jail, and that poor kid - ” He paused, looked down again. “I’m sorry, Mary, I know how hard you tried to keep this town together, but...well, look at that.”

Sam waved a hand down the street, and Mary looked, saw the dusty front of the saloon. In front of it, a couple of ragged-looking men were tying their horses, looking around the streets with anticipatory smirks. Outlaws.

“It’s starting, Mary,” Sam said, still with that sadness in his voice. “And I’m afraid I can’t afford to see it through again. Jennie’s expecting, you know, and I just can’t take chances anymore.” He paused, shrugged, back away more. “Maybe it’s best if this town fades away, after everything that’s happened. Maybe it isn’t supposed to go on.”

“Don’t talk like that, Mr. Worthington,” Mary begged, suddenly feeling as if she were living in a graveyard.

Sam paused, then shrugged one last time. “Sorry, Mary, but that’s how I feel. Well, I have to go make arrangements. I’ll see you later.”

Mary watched Sam Worthington go, fought the conviction she suddenly had that he was only the first. Her eyes went unwillingly to the unkempt, dangerous-looking men outside the saloon, and her skin crawled.

_No._ She struggled up from that quagmire of helplessness. Not anymore. _Not if I have to dig this town out with my bare hands. I won’t let it go again._ She clutched her notebook tighter, and continued toward the jail.

  
  


“Name?”

“Anthony Durning.”

“Occupation?”

“I’m a salesman. From St. Louis.”

The air in the jailhouse glowed with dust and early morning sunlight as Durning leaned across the wooden desk and looked at the sheet that Gerald Townsend was writing on. Durning glanced at the cell where the long-haired hermit was holed up, but Vin was sitting motionless on the cot, lazing against the back wall, his legs drawn up and his hat hiding most of his face. Durning smirked at him, then looked back to Townsend.

“You’re a salesman.” Gerald wrote it down. “And, um...well, I guess, tell me what you saw last night.”

“Okay.” Durning leaned back, rubbed his chin. “I was taking a walk, down by where that jewelry store is, - ”

The door to the jail opened just then, and both men looked up as Mary entered, a benign smile on her placid face.

“Oh - good morning, Mrs. Travis.” Gerald hastily rose to his feet.

“Morning, Mr. Townsend.” Mary returned. “Is Mr. Conklin available?”

“Um - ” Gerald sat back down again, not noticing the very suspicious look Durning was giving Mary. “No, he’s at a meeting. Guess you heard, huh?”

Mary nodded, smiling sweetly. “I need to get some facts for my newspaper. Do you mind if I wait?”

“Uh - ” Gerald glanced at Durning, who was scowling at him.

“We’re conducting some business here,” Durning said, looking at Mary but not smiling.

“Oh.” Mary backed toward the cells. “Well, I won’t disturb you then. Mind if I take a seat?” Mary sat down in a nearby chair and opened up her notebook.

Durning scowled at her. “Do you mind, lady? This is personal.”

Mary looked him up and down. “Pardon me, Mr....Mr-?”

“Durning.” Gerald offered helpfully.

“Mr. Durning,” Mary amended with a smarmy smile. “But if this is regarding your witnessing last night’s alleged crime against the town, it’s a matter of public record, and there should be no problem with me, as a member of the public, hearing it. Should there?”

Durning scowled at her again, then turned back to Gerald. “Who is that woman?”

“Oh, that’s Mary Travis,” Gerald said cluelessly. “She runs the newspaper.”

“Travis?” Durning asked. “Like in Judge Travis?”

“Mm-hmm.” Gerald looked down at the form. “That’s her father-in-law. So, anyway, you were walking down the street and you heard two people arguing.”

“Right,” Durning seemed to be thinking, very hard. After a pause he said, a little less certainly than he had before, “One of ‘em, I guess it was Conklin, was askin’ the other guy to leave him alone and let him do his job. I got curious, I guess, and I walked a little closer to check it out.”

Gerald nodded, dutifully writing everything down. “Conklin told me there were some kids trying to break into the jewelry store down that way. Did you see anybody?”

“Nah.” Durning replied quickly. “It was too dark.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well.” Durning thought. “I heard the other guy say something like, get out of here, we’re running this town. Then I got close enough to see them, and suddenly that long-haired guy just lifts up his gun and blam!”

Gerald blinked, amazed. “Really?”

“You bet.” Durning nodded. “Well, I got scared and started running, but then I saw that the sheriff wasn’t dead, he was just kind of winged, and I thought, that guy needs help. So I came back, and that ‘s when you showed up.”

Gerald nodded again, still writing. Durning turned to Mary, and noticed she was writing too, in her notebook. Frowning, he said, “Hey, this isn’t for you. I don’t want this in the paper.”

“Hm?” Mary looked up, the stamp of innocence across her face. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Durning, but as a journalist it’s part of my responsibility to record as many facts as I come across, when composing an article. So far I see nothing objectionable in your statement. What don’t you want reported?”

Durning’s mouth worked for a moment, then he shut it, shrugged, then said, “Oh, forget it. Just spell my name right.” He turned back to Gerald. “So, you got all that?”

“Uh-huh, I think so.” Gerald double-checked the paper in front of him.

With a rustle of her skirts, Mary rose out of the chair and came forward. “Well, it certainly sounds like you went through an ordeal, Mr. Durning.”

“Damn - er, darn straight.” Durning nodded, glaring at the sleeping Vin. “That man’s an animal. He oughta stay locked up for good.”

“Yes,” Mary purred. “Now, just so I have all my facts, you say you didn’t see anyone breaking into the jewelry store?”

“Nope.” Durning answered, “Like I said, it was pretty dark.”

Mary nodded. “And when you heard the gunshot, what did you do?”

“I ran, are you kidding? This is the west, lady. It ain’t safe around here.”

Mary nodded again. “And how far from Mr. Conklin were you when you turned around and saw that he wasn’t dead?”

“Oh - I don’t know. Maybe twenty feet.”

“So what happened, that you could suddenly see twenty feet in front of you in the dark?”

Durning stopped, blinked at Mary for a moment. “What?”

“Well, you just said it was too dark to see who was breaking into the jewelry store, but you had enough light to see Mr. Conklin was not dead. There wasn’t a moon last night, so - well, I’m sorry, but I have to get the facts straight.”

Durning glared at Mary for a second, then coughed and turned to Gerald. “Are we finished?”

“Hm?” Gerald appeared lost in thought. “Um, yeah, I suppose. You’d better stay in town, Mr. Durning, until Judge Travis arrives. Probably he’ll want to talk to you.”

“Oh?” Durning’s voice went a little higher than it usually did, and he coughed again to hide. “Well, fine, whatever.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and abruptly left the office.

Mary watched him go, looked at Gerald apologetically. “I’m sorry, Mr. Townsend. Did I step on your jurisdiction?”

“Mm - no, no.” Gerald sat with one finger to his mouth, as if pondering something. He stared at the wall for a minute, then said, “You know - ”

Mary was halfway to the door, turned around. “What’s that, Mr. Townsend?”

“You know, I didn’t think of it, but there was light in that alley last night. There was a lantern on the ground. Funny how Mr. Durning doesn’t remember it.”

“Hm.” Mary tried to hide her smile. “Very strange.”

Gerald blinked. “Oh - don’t you want to wait for Mr. Conklin?”

Mary put her hand on the door. “No, Mr. Townsend, thank you. I think I have everything I need, for the moment. But you’ve been a lot of help.”

“Oh, well. Anytime.” Gerald went back to the statement and his own little world, his brow creased with confusion.

  
  


Mary paused as she opened the door and took a half-step out of it, her mind churning so fiercely she was surprised the whole town couldn’t hear it. Yes, if she could help it, maybe things weren’t as hopeless as they had first seemed. She leaned in a little bit, gave one last glance toward the cot where Vin was sleeping -

And saw him smiling at her from underneath his hat, his calm eyes twinkling in the darkness under the brim. He waved at her, just a small movement of the fingers on one hand lying on his chest, but it was enough. She smiled back at him, felt a strength return to her. She glanced at Gerald, still puzzling over the contradictory statement he’d just taken. No, it wasn’t hopeless. Not if she could help it.

And Mary opened the door, took a deep breath, and stepped outside.

  
  


The saloon was almost empty in the early morning hours, empty and quiet. The only patrons were Childers, Tims, and Sherson, who were sharing a table and some breakfast in one corner, and a couple of dirty-looking desperados who had just wandered in five minutes before and were skulking by the door. The bartender had gone to them reluctantly, and the businessmen heard the outlaws cursing at him in Spanish. Judging by their actions, they wanted beer. And quick.

Tims shook his head. “I don’t like this,” he stammered as he watched the bartender hurry by their table.

“Ah, calm down,” Sherson said as he set his beer mug down. “Concho said he’s got it all worked out. It’s the town that’s got to worry.”

Childers nodded, but Tims was still shaking his head and muttering to himself when Durning walked through the saloon doors, walked up to the table, and pulled the chair out from it with a loud bang. Sitting down with a loud ‘humph’, he pulled the seat up and glowered at the faces staring back at him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Childers asked archly.

“Ah, that newspaper bitch,” Durning spat, reaching for Sherson’s beer and taking a long pull. “She was all over my story at the jail. Nosy broad.”

“You mean she knows?” Tims squeaked.

“No, but she ain’t as easy to fool as the deputy,” Durning groused. “She probably suspects.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Sherson shrugged, grimacing at how much of his beer Durning had drunk. “She can’t prove anything, and all we need is that tracker to stay in the jail.”

Durning took a cigar out, lit it, and peered at Tims. The man was white as a sheet. You’ll blow our cover, Durning’s glare told the other man as soon as their eyes met. Watch it.

Tims had just looked away, and was nibbling at some of his breakfast bacon, when a large, dark-complected man dressed in a bolero jacket and black pants suddenly appeared at the door. The other outlaws looked at him, and one of them pulled out a knife and muttered something, gesturing in a complaining way and pointing with the knife out the door. The dark man shook his head, moved his hands in a stopping motion, and was apparently arguing with the others about something. After a few moments he seemed to win, and Tims saw the knife-weilding outlaw reluctantly sheathe his weapon and shake his head in disappointment as the dark man wandered away - and, surprisingly, over to their table.

“Good morning, my friends,” he said in amiable, Spanish-accented tones as he clapped Sherson on the shoulder and sat down. “How are you doing?”

Durning turned his glare on higher. “Who the hell are you?”

“Oh! You don’t know?” The man smiled calmly as he leaned lazily back in the seat. “My name is Domingo Jiminez, but everybody here, they call me Domino. Concho asked me to come out ahead of time, look you guys up.”

“Is that right?” Sherson asked, putting one elbow on the table and looking the new man up and down.

“That’s right.” Domino kept smiling, sat up and put his hands together. “I am here to take care of you. So, what can I do for you gents? You want some women, or I know. You probably don’t have guns, right?”

“Forget the guns,” Durning said, looking at Domino seriously. “This Concho guy, he talks pretty big. Is he for real?”

“Oh, as real as they come, señor,” Domino said with an earnest nod. “Bigger, even. He told me we’re gonna take this dump over, once the law is gone.”

“But the law’s not gone,” Childers pointed out. “What’s he going to do about that?”

Domino held his hand up. “Not to worry. We got it all planned out. Everything will go perfectly.”

Tims blinked anxiously, pointed at the two outlaws by the door. “Is that what you were talking to them about?”

“Hm?” Domino glanced at the men. “Oh - they are overeager. They want to go get the tracker that’s in the jail. There’s a bounty on his head, and they want it. But Concho says, nothing like that until he arrives tomorrow. And I am Concho’s second, so they have to listen to me.”

“Oh,” Tims said, at once impressed and scared to death.

Domino sighed in satisfaction. “Yes, my friends are impatient, they want to start tearing things up right away. But I have to hold them back until Concho arrives. Then we can do whatever we want.”

“Yeah,” Sherson said into his beer. “If that newspaper bitch doesn’t screw it up for us.”

“Pardon me, señor?” Domino leaned forward on his elbows, tilted one ear toward Sherson. “What was that?”

“Ah, nothing,” Durning waved a hand. “Just this woman, runs the local rag.”

“Oh, her.” Domino straightened up and smiled. “I know about her. She a problem?”

Durning looked at Domino inquisitively. “Might be. Can you fix it?”

Domino put his hands wide. “For you, my friends? Anything! I just need a little time to get my people organized, and your troubles will be over.”

Tims was turning pale, but Sherson and Durning exchanged surprised, pleased glances. Then Durning looked at Domino and said, “And what will this little solution cost us?”

“First one’s on the house.” Domino said happily, clapping Durning on the shoulder.

“Oh, shit!” Childers suddenly said, nodding toward the saloon stairs.

Durning looked. Ezra Standish had just come down, and was regarding the outlaws in the room with a look that approached alarm. Durning hurriedly scooted his chair as far from Domino as possible, but Ezra didn’t seem to see them. Instead, after a pause, he walked straight through the room and out the saloon doors, leaving them flapping wildly in his wake.

“Geez,” Sherson huffed as soon as Ezra was gone. “That’s all we need, is those guys breathing down our necks.”

Domino laughed. “You’re afraid of them? After today, they are - pfft! - nothing. If the town doesn’t make them leave, believe me, we will.”

“Oh, yeah?” Durning eyed the boastful Mexican. “How?”

Domino lifted up his index finger and smiled. “Sorry, señor. A good craftsman does not reveal his secrets.” He stood up, gave the men a final, sweeping glance. “ See you all later.”

Durning traded looks with the others as Domino wandered back to his compatriots.

“Just what we need,” Childers groused. “More complications.”

“What complications?” Durning argued. “You heard him. He’s going to take care of things for us.”

“He sounded like he was planning to kill that lady,” Tims said anxiously.

“Nah.” Durning said dismissively, then paused. Then said again, “Nah, he’ll just scare her. Scare her so’s she leaves us alone.”

“I don’t like it.” Childers reiterated. “The more people know what we’re up to, the more ways it can go wrong.”  
“Then leave.” Sherson snapped. “Nobody’s making you stay, Childers.”

“Don’t say that,” Durning warned Sherson, glaring at Childers. “He’ll leave, then he’ll rat on us. You’d better not, Childers.”

Childers glowered at the other businessmen. “You’re insane. I’m not going to rat on you.”

Tims was shaking his head, pushing his bacon around on the plate. “We should have left that safe alone,” he moped.

Durning shot him a look, then cast his eyes on the saloon doors, which had just settled back to their original positions.

“After today, they’re nothing.” he said in a low voice, and grinned as he reached once more for Sherson’s beer. “Yep. I’ll definitely drink to that.”

  
  


Buck hurried down the street toward Nathan’s room, making cursory checks to ensure that his shirt was tucked in and his face didn’t feel like it looked too awful, since he hadn’t shaved. He knew Nathan would be sore he hadn’t gotten more sleep, but hell, it was almost noon, he’d gotten four whole hours. He felt all right, and it wasn’t like he could sleep much more anyway.

Buck noticed how quiet it was as he wound his way through Four Corner’s thoroughfares. He knew he was getting some dirty looks from the few people who were out on the street. He was almost used to them. But here and there someone smiled at him too, and that felt a little better. Maybe this thing with Vin had gotten some people riled, but Buck tried to shore himself up with the thought that most people didn’t seem to mind having him around. Some were even downright friendly...

Buck was passing a small notions store when he heard a voice call his name. Stopping, he turned to see the owner of the store, a slight young woman, standing in the doorway clutching her broom. Her big eyes looked scared of Buck, but he remembered that she’d always been friendly and tugged at his hat in greeting.

“Morning, Miss Walters,” he said as amiably as he could. What was her first name, he thought. Emmie.

“Um - hi, Mr. Wilmington,” the young woman replied, a little nervously. “I was just wondering how your friend was doing.”

“JD? Oh, he’s doin’ much better, ma’am, thanks for asking. I was just on my way over, I’ll give him your regards.”

“Oh - okay, thanks.” Emmie smiled, and seemed to relax a bit. “Um, I heard that you were leaving town.”

Buck was suddenly confused, but blinked it away. “No, ma’am, I’m not planning on leaving. You mean on a trip?”

Emmie twisted her hands on the broom. “Um, no, it’s just everybody’s saying that the sheriff is going to make you guys leave, now that one of you tried to kill him. It’s just that...well, I guess it’s not very nice to say, but I think you guys did a better job than he’s doing”

“Um...” Buck leaned back a bit, suddenly wished he’d shaved. “Well, thank you, ma’am, but you-all made Conklin sheriff. I’m sure he’ll...well, he’ll do his best anyways.”

“I didn’t make him sheriff,” Emmie said, almost angrily. “I don’t even like him. And I don’t think one of you guys tried to kill him either.”

“I appreciate that, ma’am.” Buck took a step away, “Now if you’ll excuse me - ”

“You guys aren’t really going to go, are you?”

Buck stopped. “Not planning on it, ma’am.”

“That’s good.” Emmie smiled. And it was a nice smile. “Because there’s a lot of people around here that want you to stay.” Her voice dropped, and she leaned closer to Buck. “There used to be some kind of ratty people coming into town, and if they come back some of us don’t think Conklin can handle them. We’d just feel better if you stayed.”

Buck put his hands together, backed away with a smile. “Don’t worry, ma’am. We ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Emmie nodded happily, and waved at Buck as he tugged at his hat again and turned back down the street.

_Now that was odd._ Well, maybe it wasn’t. He’d been afraid of what might happen regarding their employment ever since Chris’ attack had come to light; that Conklin was thinking of kicking them out didn’t seem farfetched, at least not after last night, but still even he had to be aware of what would happen if he was the only law in Four Corners. But wait, it was Conklin. Maybe he wasn’t.

Buck passed the saloon, peeked inside. Hm, usual traffic for the late morning hours. Buck’s stomach knotted as he noticed a couple of men there that he’d seen before, roughnecks from the time before Chris came. _I was afraid of this. They’re coming back._

More people on the street. Buck passed close to a young boy, who looked at him and waved. Buck waved back, but noticed that the boy’s mother had seen the exchange and yanked the youth out of his path, giving Buck a venomous look. Buck swallowed his anger, thought of Emmie’s smile, and that helped. But not everyone was on their side.

Buck arranged his thoughts as he walked up the stairs. He hoped JD would be in better spirits, but knew that probably wouldn’t be the case. Poor kid. This whole thing’s been tough on everybody, but in his present condition it might kill JD. spiritually if not physically. Chris was his idol; well, hell, they all had respected him. Now that was over, and Buck tried to think of something to say to JD, some way to make him feel better.

He couldn’t come up with a thing.

Nathan’s door was slightly open, and Buck gently pushed on it and looked into the room. He knew Nathan would probably be there, but was surprised to see Josiah and Ezra there also, Josiah sitting quietly by JD’s side, and Ezra standing in the corner, flipping his pack of cards in his fingers. JD looked like he was still asleep, still balled up in the covers, only the top half of his face visible in the entwining blankets. There was a heavy oppression in the air that set the hackles up on Buck’s neck, and he hated it immediately.

Nathan got up from his chair at JD’s side and approached Buck, his face angry.

“What are you doin’ here?” he whispered. “I thought I told you to get some sleep.”

There was something unsettled in Nathan’s eyes, and Buck shook his head and disregarded the question. “What happened? Is JD worse?”

Nathan paused, then turned away with a rueful eye to the bed. “No, he ain’t awake yet. I hope he wakes up soon, I need to change those bandages.”

Buck walked into the room, closed the door behind him. Everyone looked worried, even the usually unreadable Ezra. “Then what is it?”

Ezra left the corner, walked close to where Buck was standing and said quietly, “I talked to Vin last night, in the jail. Apparently a vote is being taken this morning that will likely end our careers here.”

Buck froze for a moment, staring at Ezra. Then he put his hands on his hips and looked at the floor. “Shit,” he said softly.

“I know,” Nathan agreed as he retook his seat. “Stinks, don’t it?”

“Miss Walters was right.” Buck said to no one in particular. “They want us out.”

“Not all of us, fortunately,” Ezra amended, looking down at the cards sliding through his hands, “Mr. Tanner seemed to think Nathan would be allowed to stay, and Mr. Dunne. The rest of us are currently _persona non grata_..”

“Well, they can have my gun,” Buck said stubbornly, looking around at his friends, “but I ain’t leavin’. Not till JD gets out of that bed.”

There was a pause, then Ezra looked up at Buck with portent in his green eyes. “It’s - Mr. Tanner’s opinion that it would be better for Mr. Dunne if he were removed from here as soon as possible. For his own safety.”

Buck looked at Ezra for a moment, then walked over to the small bed, with its smaller occupant. He put his hands absently on the wrought iron railing, and stared at JD’s sleeping form with a thoughtful look in his brown eyes.

The others watched him for a moment, then Nathan stood and joined Buck at the foot of his bed. Buck didn’t look at him.

“It’s not a bad idea, Buck,” Nathan said in low tones. “I done all I can for him here. Maybe he should get out of here, go to some big city like San Francisco, or maybe even go back east.”

Buck’s eyes looked immeasurably sad. “He ain’t going to get better?”

Nathan paused, sighed, scratched his head. “He don’t have any infections. His collarbone’ll heal all right, and the stitches look good. But I can’t do anything about the other.”

The other. Nathan couldn’t even say it, that JD was crippled and would be for the rest of his life. They were right, of course, there was nothing for JD to stay for in Four Corners, but...

But Buck found himself shaking his head. “Comin’ out west was all he ever wanted. We take that away and he is going to die.” Buck said it in a decisive, firm way, matched by the combative look in his eyes when he turned to Nathan.

The healer looked at JD and replied, “I know, Buck, but he might get killed if he stays here. And maybe - maybe there’s somebody out there that can help him.”

“In any case,” Josiah said softly from his post by JD’s bed, “it appears our time here is done.”

Buck looked at Josiah angrily, tried to keep his voice down, but it was difficult. “You ain’t just givin’ up? Weren’t you the one who said we had to keep ourselves together so JD would have something to get better for?”

“You heard Nathan.” Josiah stood and moved to the end of the bed, and talked lower. “We can’t help JD any more here. And much as I hate to go, we always knew eventually our time here was going to run out.”

Buck stood there for a moment, staring at Josiah, his mind rampaging with emotion. It couldn’t end like this, it couldn’t - but -

They were tired. That was it. Everyone was tired and worn out, including him. The past four days had been sheer hell on bodies and nerves, and they were simply sick of fighting it. But they had to, dammit! It couldn’t be over this way.

Josiah went back and sat down by JD’s side, and Nathan resumed his place in the other chair. There was an eerie familiarity about the scene, and suddenly Buck knew what it was. The day they had found JD, that afternoon, they had all gathered just like this, at JD’s bedside, and talked about what to do. Just like this, except Vin had been there.

Now he wasn’t. And it looked like the group was falling apart.

There was a knock on the door, and after giving the others a quizzical look, Buck went to answer it.

_Oh, Jesus._ Buck felt a surge of nausea. It was Conklin.

“Good morning, Mr. Wilmington,” Conklin said a little too cheerfully, and loudly. Buck hushed him, opened the door a little wider.

“Oh, sorry,” Conklin said in a quieter voice, and stepped into the room, looking around. “Good, I kind of thought you’d all be here.”

Nathan stood up quickly, approached the man. “What is it, Mr. Conklin? We got to keep it quiet in here, for JD.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll make it brief then.” Conklin waited until the men had come close enough to him, then cleared his throat and put his hand on the lapel that still proudly bore his sheriff’s star. “In light of recent events, I’ve been asked by the town council to, uh, remove you gentlemen from your employment as the town’s lawmen, effective immediately.”

Ezra, Josiah, Nathan, and Buck looked at each other, their faces all wearing similar expressions of dismay. It was happening.

Conklin paused dramatically, then continued. “Now, Mr. Jackson, you’re a citizen of this town, so you may of course stay, but you other gentlemen may want to consider alternative places to call home.”

Nathan tilted his head. “What about JD?”  
“Oh - well, Mr. Dunne is hardly a threat to anyone in his current condition. I don’t think the council would have any problem with him staying.”

Buck glared at him. “That’s mighty charitable of you.”

Conklin grinned, missing the point. “Well, you know, we appreciate you men’s , uh, service, and I’m sure Judge Travis is likewise grateful, but I’m afraid recent happenings have eroded the town’s faith in your capacity to render your duties effectively. So I’ve been given the authority to dismiss you, and I’m using it.”

There was a thick silence in the room as everyone absorbed this. Then Buck folded his arms and looked at Conklin sternly.

“And what if we don’t feel like goin’?” he asked archly.

Nathan moved to put a warning hand on his shoulder as Conklin frowned at him. “Well, then, as sheriff of this town I can make you leave, since I have reason to believe your presence here poses a threat to the people. But you’re all reasonable men, at least most of you, most of the time. If it comes to running you out with shotguns, it won’t be because of anything I started.”

Josiah eyed Conklin evenly. “Mr. Conklin, I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, but things were pretty bad here before Judge Travis hired us. What do you plan to do if they come back?”

Conklin wrinkled up his face, waved his free arm dismissively. “Oh, I can handle that. That’s why I got a deputy, you know. Plus, I’m sure those men have all moved on to other towns.”

“But if they haven’t?” Josiah asked again, gently.

Conklin opened his mouth, closed it, glared at Josiah as his eyes narrowed. “Yes, you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you? See this town go to rack and ruin again, so you could come in and take it back over. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but it’s not going to happen. I’m in charge now, and when the judge gets here tomorrow he’ll thank me for exposing you for the bunch of murdering renegades you are.”

Nathan scowled at the accusation. “Mr. Conklin - ”

“No, that’s enough.” Conklin said testily, backing toward the door. “I’ve been polite with you people, and look what it’s got me.” He stabbed his finger at Ezra, then Josiah and Buck. “You and you and you - out by sundown, or I’m warning you. The town council’s got shotguns too, and we know how to use ‘em.” With that, Conklin turned and stormed out the door, leaving it hanging open behind him.

There was a heavy silence in the room for what seemed like an eternity. Then Buck shook his head and said, “We ain’t gonna stand for this, are we? Gettin’ run out of town like rats by some sidewindin’ coward?”

Josiah was staring at the door thoughtfully. “We can try to stay. But if he makes good on that threat, somebody might get hurt.”

“Like Conklin?” Buck spat, giving Josiah a significant look.

“No, like Emmie Walters,” Josiah replied. “Or someone’s child. These are nervous people, Buck. Their aim ain’t too straight. And we’ll get blamed for that too.”

Buck looked around, almost wildly. “So that’s it? We’re just gonna let Conklin break us up?”

“He’s got the authority,” Josiah said regretfully as he walked back to the window. “It ain’t what any of us wants, but I don’t see as we have much of a choice.”

Nobody moved for a few moments. Finally Buck walked quietly to the chair by JD’s bed, sat down in it, and leaned far forward with his chin resting on his fisted hands. He stared at JD’s sleeping face, and said nothing.

After a few moments Buck heard Nathan sigh, heard weary footsteps as he moved to the other chair and sat down. He sighed, but didn’t say anything else.

Buck looked up to see Josiah come to stand behind Nathan and put a hand on the healer’s shoulder. Nathan didn’t look up.

Ezra tucked his cards into his jacket, walked quietly to the foot of the bed. When he finally spoke, it was in the softest of voices. “Mr. Wilmington?”

Buck looked over, his eyes focusing after a moment.

“Before I leave...” Ezra ran his hands along the bedrail, not looking at Buck as he spoke, “There is a sum of money I have been appropriating for the purchase of my saloon. I’d like to offer it to finance you and Mr. Dunne’s journey. I think - I think San Francisco would be best for him.”

Buck sat back, opened his mouth.

Ezra held up his hand, quickly. “I’ll take no argument on this, Mr. Wilmington. Mr. Dunne needs the best accommodations possible and sleeper cars are not inexpensive.”

Buck peered at Ezra, openly curious.

Ezra’s hands went back to the railing, his face changing as he stared at the broken youth sleeping before them. “I see no reason for Mr. Dunne to suffer second-class treatment simply because this thing has...has ended badly for us. I’ll leave, and gladly. It’s long been time for me to take a change of air, but he...I fear that Mr. Dunne may need to be eased into this new world he has...it will take him some time to adjust...”

Ezra faltered for a moment, stopped, gazed down at his hands. He grasped the railing until his knuckles turned white, and when he looked back up there was an anger in his eyes so intense Buck felt as if he’d been burned by them.

“Mr. Jackson, “ Ezra said in a suddenly tight, strained voice, looking at Nathan. “When Mr. Larabee returns, please tell him for me that I hope he lives the rest of his life in contemplation of what he has destroyed here. Because I for one will never forgive him for it.”

Josiah and Nathan both looked at Ezra, mild surprise in their faces. Ezra glanced at them, looked away and cleared his throat as he backed toward the door.

“My offer stands, Mr. Wilmington. I hope you accept it, ” he said, clearing his throat. “Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I believe I’d best start packing.”

Then Ezra hurried out the door, as fast as he could.

  
  


Thick clouds scuttled gradually over the sun, blocking the midday light as Chris carefully led his horse along the stony path to the burned-out ranch.

It had been a long journey, but today it felt like it had taken centuries. Chris barely noticed the familiar landmarks as he passed them, his mind instead on other places, other times. And they all hurt.

So close. He had been so close to taking Darcy’s advice, to going back to Four Corners and facing the consequences of that awful night. It had scared him; scared him as few things in his life had scared Chris, especially since the fire, but there had been a short time there when it seemed like it would be worth it, because maybe it would work. Maybe he could get back a little of their respect. Maybe if he showed them how sorry he was, they wouldn’t hate him so much. And then, just maybe, things would be all right.

But now Chris knew that wasn’t possible. No, not even in Darcy Thomas’ wildest flights of optimism could he pull a happy ending out of the words that sheriff was saying. Chris knew when he’d heard those words that he had to leave; had to get out before Darcy woke up, and attempted to stop him.

Because Chris was sure he would have killed him, if he tried.

Crippled...crippled...the word sounded over and over in Chris’ head, rang like a demonic echo through his heart. Oh, shit, JD. Chris felt that horrible helpless ache course through him. I’m so sorry. Until last night I didn’t know. Josiah said you were hurt, probably pretty bad, but I crippled you. I turned you into a damn invalid, and you were only trying to make sure I wasn’t going to kill myself getting home. You probably hate me, but I hate myself worse. I thought I could make it up to you somehow, before, but how do you make up for taking somebody’s life away from them? I gave Darcy my wedding ring, it’s the only thing of value I have. It won’t make you walk again, but maybe he can get enough money from it to get you out to the sea, or somewhere else, so you can feel better. It’s all I have. I know it’s not enough.

Chris came to a turn in the road. Pretty close to the ranch now. He felt a tightening in his chest, recalled the sheriff’s words that Four Corners had turned on the others. God, as if JD’s injuries weren’t problems enough for them. What were they doing now? Had Ezra left, as he always seemed to be ready to do, off to New Orleans or St. Louis maybe, to join his mother? Would Josiah leave too, or fight to stay and finish the church? And Buck - Buck, whose hating eyes Chris saw everywhere, what would he do? He wouldn’t leave JD. Thank God, at least Chris knew that the loyalty that up until now had been for Chris, Buck would transplant to JD, and stay with the boy for the rest of his life. Buck’s a good friend, Chris told JD in his mind. Don’t abuse his friendship, like I did.

But he’d abused all their friendships. Buck’s, JD’s, even Ezra, who’d always held him at arm’s length. Josiah, Nathan. And of course, Vin - quiet, unassuming Vin, who gave Chris his unflinching loyalty and who was probably at this moment trying to keep things from falling apart. But Chris shook his head, it was no use. Thanks to him, they were probably all being treated like child murderers, and Chris hoped for all their sakes that they got out of Four Corners before something really terrible happened. He already had the burden of JD’s injuries on his soul. He didn’t want to add any of their deaths to it as well.

Closer still, and the clouds were getting thicker. Chris’ mind turned to tomorrow - tomorrow, the day Judge Travis was supposed to arrive to tend to his case, and sentence him. What would the judge do, when he got there and Chris didn’t show up? Perhaps Darcy would be there by then, and would explain, but Chris wasn’t sure the Irishman would see his side of it enough to want to uphold his decision. He was sure he didn’t - Darcy probably hated him now too, thought him a coward and a fugitive, but Darcy didn’t know. How could anyone know who didn’t know Chris’ men, the depth of shame and injustice they were undergoing at that moment? The judge knew them, a little; maybe he would understand that Chris couldn’t go back, that there was nothing he could accomplish by going back to town long enough to get lynched, or rot in a cell. The situation would be the same, regardless of whether he went back or not. JD would still be crippled. His men would still be scattered. His sin would stay the same.

_Then why run?_ A voice that sounded like Buck’s asked as Chris rounded the final bend toward the only home he’d ever loved. Why not go back, if it really doesn’t make a difference?

Chris bit his lip, fought back tears as four days of exhaustion and tight nerves brought long-buried emotions to the surface. Because I just can’t face it. I admitted it before, I ‘m a coward, and it’s true, but it’s much more true now. Darcy thought my men would forgive me, but he didn’t know how bad it was. They could have forgiven me for hurting JD, maybe, but not for crippling him. They could have forgiven me for angering the town, but not for forcing them to leave it. No matter what I do, I can’t make it right, except by one way.

I’ve got to disappear. Forever.

They’ll still be mad. They’ll still curse my name and hate me, but at least my money will help JD, and I won’t be around to cause any more pain. I’m tired of pain...

The ranch came into view, and Chris sighed out loud at the sight of it. He’d shared the low, one-story structure with his wife Sarah and their son Adam for eight years, until it had been burned to the ground. There it stood, charred timbers still jutting upward from its stone foundation. A scrubby yard, an abandoned corral with a windmill still turning lazily in the mild breeze, forgotten. And a short distance from the house, in a little square of wrought-iron fencing, two white wooden crosses, names written lovingly on them for all eternity: Sarah and Adam.

Chris slowed the horse down, stopped and dismounted. He ached, ached and hurt, and now it escalated until it consumed him as he staggered toward those two tiny markers. He grabbed the iron, felt it hard and cold under his hands. _Here I am, Sarah. I’m home, and this time I’m not leaving again. Not until you come and get me._

The wind rustled in the trees, and Chris put his head down, let the tears run down his cheeks. Christ, Sarah, maybe you won’t come. Likely you’re ashamed of me too, and you got the right, but I’m tired of fighting these demons in me. They seem pretty determined to win. But I’m not going to let them take anybody else with them, just me. Just me.

The clouds thickened more, it began to smell like rain. _Well, that’s appropriate._ Chris turned around and walked toward his horse. Yes, it seemed right, now that Chris had come to the end of his trail and there was nothing left, that it should rain and be dark. It was comforting somehow, to know that the sun would not shine on his face anymore while he was alive. Chris looked around the small ranch. _This is the last place I’ll see. It was the happiest time of my life, and it’s the first place they’ll look when they realize I’m not coming back. I’ll make it easy on them. And me._

He put his hands on his saddlebag, reached into it.

This is it. The end of everything, but I’ve got one comfort left.

Pulled out a bottle of whiskey.

Chris paused, stared at the bottle uncertainly. He’d picked it up at a roadside cantina, but now as he looked at it he felt his stomach lurch. He shouldn’t get drunk; getting drunk had caused his problems, had broken up his men, had paralyzed JD. It would take away his reason, his sanity, and it had felt good to have them, the last four days. He had been thinking, and talking to Darcy, and facing things, all without crawling to the bottle. For him, it had been nothing short of a miracle.

But now he wanted to escape. He needed to escape.

Chris looked around. He was in the middle of nowhere, only ghosts and memories lived here. He’d been living with those too, the last four days; throwing JD into a brick wall, smashing his fist into JD’s face, lurching out of the alley and leaving JD bleeding in the dirt. Waking up to Buck’s burning eyes, then Josiah’s gentle but incriminating words, get out of here before you kill someone...

_Oh, God._ Chris suddenly yearned for the blissful forgetfulness in that green bottle. To forget, to just drink and drink until it didn’t hurt anymore, and then lay down and go to sleep. God, it would feel so good...

But he couldn’t bring himself to uncork the bottle. Not yet.

A few drops of rain fell. Chris turned around, looked at the graves, suddenly thought, Josiah was right, after all. He said I had to go to the tombs and the mountains. Well, I guess the tombs won. Sorry, Josiah. Wasn’t what you had in mind, but I don’t see that I have a choice. Please don’t be gone when Darcy gets there. Make sure JD gets taken care of. And tell Mary...tell everyone...

I’m sorry.

With the heaviest heart he’d ever known, Chris sat down on the ruined front steps of his ranch, and stared at the bottle in front of him with tired, frightened eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

Mary paused in her writing and set her pen down with a satisfied smile. _There. That should do it._

She’d been very careful to keep any sarcasm or innuendo out of her writing, but she had to admit in this particular case that had been very hard to do. But she thought - maybe - that she’d been able to write an article about Vin’s arrest without the slightest hint that this was the fraud she knew it was. And she knew she would be proven right.

LOCAL PEACEKEEPER JAILED, the headline said, SHERIFF WOUNDED. And then facts beneath it, just facts. Mary smiled to herself, but then they were fairly strange facts, like the witness had a strangely selective memory. And selective vision. And, she sensed from his attitude, a lot to hide.

Mary took a deep breath, stretched her tired muscles. Things were beginning to look up. Orin would be here before long, and certainly when presented with the facts he would have no choice but to let Vin go, and accept Conklin’s apology for treating the men so shabbily. The ‘witness’ may have fooled Gerald Townsend, but just let Orin fix those piercing black eyes on him and we’ll see how much of his story he even remembers! Yes, Vin would be free by tomorrow.

And Chris would come back...Mary felt a little uncertain about that. His actions still confused her, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel completely safe around him again, after...but she knew he’d come back, it was the right thing to do, and Chris always did the right thing, no matter how he felt about it personally. She wondered how the others would treat him, and hoped they wouldn’t shut him out completely. Vin wouldn’t. And JD...

_I should go see JD. I haven’t visited him in a while._ She stood to go get her shawl and take a walk when the door opened, and Conklin walked in, scowling, his arm in a sling.

Mary swallowed, remembering Gloria’s words of the previous evening. _Stand firm. You have the facts._ Smiling, she said, “Good morning, Mr. Conklin.”

“Morning, Mary.” Conklin tipped his hat. “Heard from the judge?”

Mary shook her head. “He should be here by tomorrow morning, though. Is there a problem?”

“Problem? No, just the opposite. I finally got the council’s approval to fire those hired guns, and I wanted you to put an article about it in your newspaper.”

Mary didn’t hear anything Conklin said after ‘hired guns’. She tried not to show the dismay she felt. “You - fired them? Why?”

“Why?!” Conklin yapped, lifting his bandaged arm. “Look at this! Shot at point blank range by that tracker fellow! The whole town’s up in arms about it, Mary, they practically begged me to get them out of town.”

Mary doubted that, but didn’t say so.

“Say, Gerald said you were in the jail this morning,” Conklin said suspiciously. “You want to talk to me about something?”

Mary moved her notebook out of Conklin’s reach. “I was looking for some facts concerning Mr. Tanner’s arrest. You might want to look at his case closer, the witness I saw didn’t seem to have a very credible story.”

“Huh!” Conklin snorted. “You would say that. I have looked over Mr. Durning’s testimony, and it looks pretty air-tight to me. That tracker’s going to be in jail for a long, long time.”

“You think so?” Mary crossed her arms. “The judge might not agree with you, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I’m not so concerned about the judge’s opinion anymore,” Conklin said confidently, putting his hands on his lapels, “In fact, the reason I asked about him was because I wired him this morning and left a message at the Ridge City stop to tell him not to bother to come.”

Mary was thunderstruck. “What?!”

Conklin shrugged. “Well, there isn’t any need anymore, is there? Town’s quiet, we got a sheriff, and *if* Larabee comes back I’m more than prepared to sentence him. Seems to me having the judge come here is just a waste of time.”

“Oh, really?” Mary openly glared at Conklin; suddenly she didn’t care anymore.

“Really,” Conklin rejoined, jutting his chin out. “And before you get any ideas, the telegraph operator agrees with me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have town business to attend to.”

He turned on his heel and walked out, closed the door behind him.

For a moment Mary just stood there. She felt like screaming. She felt like tearing her hair out. But neither of those things were productive. Her mind raced around, the men were leaving, the only law was leaving, and what if the outlaws were coming back? And Orin was being told to not bother coming! She had to do something, anything, but what?

Go to them. Beg them to ignore Conklin, and stay. It was her only chance.

Setting the notebook down carefully on the desk, Mary went to get her shawl, and prayed that she wasn’t too late.

  
  


The little roadside cantina glowed in the midday sun. The proprietor, an old man whose only ambition in life had been to have a table and chairs set out for passerby to enjoy his whiskey at a nickel a head, was dusting off his only table with an old rag when he heard the approach of a horse and rider and looked up.

It was a large, dark horse with a worried-looking man on it, a man who looked at him and in an Irish accent asked, “Pardon me, sir, but I’m lookin’ for a friend of mine, a blond fellow dressed in black. Did he ride through here?”

“Huh.” The old man leaned back with a smile. “Yep, sure did, just after the sun come up. You want some whiskey?”

“Uh, no thanks,” the Irishman responded, prepared to spur forward.

“You sure? It was good enough for your friend.”

The Irishman stopped, looked at the old man with wide eyes. “He bought some?”

The old man grinned proudly. “Yep, two bottles. Homemade, best stuff in - “

“Mary, mother of God.” the Irishman muttered, and set his horse off again, disappearing into the brush at a gallop.

The old man looked after him for a moment, then spat on his rag. “Damn foreigners,” he muttered, and went back to his work.

  
  


Nathan’s room was quiet. Outside, Buck could hear the birds singing, the rattle of horses and wagons, the bustle of daily activity that after today would live only in his memory. They blended with the dim light in the still room, hung over Buck’s head as he studied JD’s sleeping face, and waited for him to wake up.

_Maybe you’re better off sleeping. kid._ Buck looked at that bruised face huddled beneath the blankets, the long-lashed eyes closed tightly as JD lay bundled on his right side. The bruises were finally starting to heal; the big one on JD’s face was just losing its dark look, fading a bit to a sort of maroon color, and the swelling was gone. The cuts and other marks were fading a bit too, and if Buck squinted it almost looked like JD wasn’t really that badly injured at all. Almost.

Yeah, keep dreamin’, JD. Maybe where you are right now, none of this happened. Maybe you’re ridin’ over to Ridge City with Chris and Vin, or dancin’ with that working girl you had your eye on. Or maybe you’re doing things that aren’t even possible. Hope they’re happy dreams, kid. Cause right now, real life stinks.

As if he’d heard Buck’s ruminations, JD stirred in the blankets, let out a small muffled groan and opened his eyes. He squinted at Buck for a moment, as if trying to place him, then lazily rolled over onto his back.

“Buck,” JD said sleepily, looking around the room with bleary eyes. “Where’s Nathan?”  
“He’s gone to get some more supplies.” Buck tried to smile as JD rubbed his eyes and yawned. “How you feelin’, kid?”

JD shrugged listlessly with his one good shoulder. “Okay. I guess.”

“Well, that’s good,” Buck said, trying to sound optimistic. “You hungry?”  
JD appeared to think about it. “No.”

Buck tilted his head. “You sure? Nathan said you ain’t had nothing to eat since last night. Some grits, maybe? Or how about some of those pan-fried potatoes you’re always eatin’ the restaurant out of?”

JD scratched his head. “No, that’s okay.” He stretched, grimacing as he moved his sore muscles, then curled back over on his right side and closed his eyes again.

He can’t still be tired. Buck leaned close to JD and said softly, “Um, son? I know you’re beat, but Nathan’s going to be wantin’ to change those bandages when he gets back, so you might as well stay up.”

“Go away, Buck.” JD replied, his voice muffled by the blankets snugged around his chin.

Buck cleared his throat, decided to try again. “Now son, I’d rather argue with you than Nathan. None of us have gotten much sleep ‘cept you, and the man is a grizzly bear about cleanliness, so you might as well give it up.”

JD groaned, opened his eyes again and once more turned himself onto his back. He stared at the wooden beams in Nathan’s ceiling and asked in a tired voice, “Is Chris back?”

Buck crossed his legs and shook his head. “Nope. Should be back tomorrow.”

JD blinked slowly at the ceiling, didn’t look at Buck. After a moment he said, “Oh,” in a very quiet voice.

Buck looked at his young friend closely. There was a drawn look to JD’s face that worried Buck, worried him because he’d seen that look before. On Chris’ face, right after he buried his family. Leaning a little closer, Buck cleared his throat and asked, “You okay, JD?”

JD still didn’t look at him, but gave a little snort and said, “That’s a stupid question.” He worked his free hand out from the blankets, and grabbing the top of the quilt pushed it down and away from his body.

“Uh - “ Buck sat up, watched at JD hiked himself up in the bed a little. “What’re you doin’ there, JD?”

“I’m gonna try to walk again,” JD said in a calm, explanatory way, and pulled himself into a sitting position.

Buck got up, walked around the bed as JD swung his legs over the side. “Now, you sure that’s a good idea? You just woke up, is all I’m sayin’, and you got some busted ribs there...”

“I know.” JD said simply, looking at the floor like it was the Pacific ocean. His hazel eyes scanned it for a moment, then, sticking his tongue out in concentration, he cautiously put both feet on the warm wooden flooring, and slowly stood up.

“Careful now,” Buck said as JD wobbled on his feet. He felt his own heart beating a little faster as JD took his hands from the edge of the bed, and stood motionless on the smooth floor. He wobbled a little, and grabbed the iron railing of the headboard for support. But he was standing.

JD smiled a little bit, then began to tilt over. More.

Buck put his hands out, alarmed.

“No help,” JD said firmly, waving Buck away.

Buck pulled back, understood. But he had only at that moment realized that he hadn’t been breathing.

“I’m gonna do this,” JD said in a shaky, but determined voice. He stood there, just stood there in his bloodstained underdrawers for what seemed to Buck like an eternity. The birds sang outside, a wagon rolled by, and somewhere Buck heard a couple of people arguing. And JD stood in the dim sunlight of that small room that had been his universe for the past four days, and tried to remember how to walk.

A minute passed. Another one. Buck noticed JD starting to shake a little bit and thought, he’s not up to this. Clearing his throat, he said softly, “Um, son - ”

“Shut up, Buck,” JD hissed, staring at the floor with huge eyes, his black hair hanging in his bruised face. “Just shut up and let me do this.”

Buck nodded, stood back again, but kept his hands free.

“I can do this.” JD repeated, shaking his head in confusion. “I know how to walk, I’ve been doing it since I was a baby. I can ride too...oh, this is so stupid. This is just - ”

He put one leg out, let go of the headboard, lost his balance and fell.

Buck was lightning fast, grabbing JD as the youth pitched forward toward the hard floor. JD gasped out as Buck’s arm wrapped around his middle, then growled in frustration.

“Damn it!” JD cried, pounding his fist into Buck’s back as the gunslinger gently lowered him to the floor. He repeated the phrase and hit Buck again, his voice rising higher each time and choking with tears. “Damn it! Damn it! _Damn it -_ ”

Buck settled JD on the floor, smoothly eased the youth back against the side of the bed, and let go of him. He leaned back, his face taut with concern.

JD grunted in frustration, grabbing his hair with his good hand and yanking it angrily. “God damn it,” he muttered in aggravation. “I still can’t walk.”

Buck put a hand to his moustache, brought it back down again. “You hurt anything in there?”

“No,” JD said in a tone that reeked with disgust, wiped at one eye with the heel of his hand.

Buck nodded, a little relieved. He eyed JD carefully, saw that the redness in his face was toning down a bit, his breathing was easing some. But Buck was still apprehensive.

JD looked at the floor, ran one hand through his hair, past the stitches. After a minute he looked up and said, “Buck?”

“Yeah?” Buck answered softly.

“This...it’s bad, isn’t it?”

Buck stared at JD for a moment. _Make a joke, say something lighthearted_. But nothing came. Nothing.

JD’s eyes grew wider, vast oceans of despair. “I mean...I’m not going to walk again. Am I?”

Oh, Jesus. Say something. He cleared his throat. “Well, I...”

“Say it.” JD demanded, his voice cracking. “This is it for me. It is, isn’t it?”

Buck’s mind raced, darted about searching for some glimmer of hope to offer, but couldn’t find any.

“Oh, God,” JD said in a choked whisper, looking down and once again grabbing a handful of hair in his good hand. He shut his eyes tightly. Buck knew he was fighting not to cry. And never felt more awful in his whole life.

_No, dammit, there’s got to be something you can do._ Leaning forward a bit, Buck put a hand on JD’s arm. The boy didn’t react, but Buck spoke as if they were looking right at each other.

“Now, son,” he said softly. “I know you’re scared, and probably you don’t want to listen to ol’ Buck yappin’ away, but I just want to let you know that...well, that you got friends who ain’t gonna let you go through whatever you got to go through alone.”

JD’s breathing became deeper as the struggle continued.

Undaunted, Buck pressed on. “Now it’s true, you got a mountain to climb. But if anybody can make it over that mountain, it’s you. You got more gumption and guts than the rest of us put together, and that’s a fact.”

“I can’t walk, Buck,” JD said miserably, still not looking at his friend. “What am I gonna do? Buck - “ JD lifted his head up, looked at Buck with eyes that were full of fear and dread. In a tremulous whisper he asked, “What am I gonna do?”

Buck tightened his grip on JD’s arm a little, so he could be sure the boy felt it, and gave him as reassuring a smile as he knew how. “You’re gonna come with me. To San Francisco.”

JD blinked in surprise, shook his head a little as if clearing it. Sniffing, he said, “S-San Francisco?”

Buck nodded, said softly, “Time for me to be movin’ on, son. And there’s people that might be able to help you there.”

JD stared at Buck, overwhelmed. He coughed a little. “You mean help me walk?”

“Maybe,” Buck said, feeling a little guilty that he was probably lying, but it was worth it if it cheered JD up, even a little. “It’s worth a try, ain’t it? And besides, I bet you ain’t never seen the coast.”

JD looked down again, shrugged. “I guess.” He stared at his hand for a moment, then quickly looked back up. “But what about the rest of the guys? And the town? Won’t the judge be mad we left?”

Buck cleared his throat. “Well, now that Conklin’s the sheriff he sorta told us we ain’t needed no more. And that’s fine, that’s fine with me, ‘bout had my fill of this place anyhow.”

JD’s eyes were wide again. “Gosh, Buck. He can’t do that, can he? I thought only the judge could let us go.”

Buck shrugged. “Conklin’s in charge now, he can do pretty much what he wants.”

JD’s gaze went to the floor for a moment, came back to Buck. “What are the others doing?”

Buck answered honestly. “I don’t know, we ain’t talked about it yet. I’m sure they’ll all be by before we go.” He tried to smile and tapped JD’s arm as he said, “Hey, maybe we can talk ‘em into coming with us.”

JD bit his lip, looked at his hand. “Chris?”

Buck felt the familiar surge of anger, tried not to let it show in his voice. “He’ll come back, if he knows what’s good for him. Judge’ll likely sentence him. He’ll pay for what he done to you.”

There was a long pause then, and Buck saw JD’s face soften into a mask of sadness as he stared at the floor, not moving. A few minutes ticked by, and Buck watched JD thinking, his black hair dangling in his eyes, his quiet breathing the only sound in the small room.

Then JD lifted his head and asked in a small, bewildered voice, “Buck?”

Buck leaned forward. “Yeah, kid?”

“We’re never gonna ride together again, are we?”

Buck’s heart ached at the simple tragedy in that whispered question. JD looked at him, and Buck flinched at what he saw in those hazel depths; JD’s soul, that sweet, simple soul of nineteen that only wanted to ride with his friends and be part of a great adventure. That soul was dying now, a painful too-soon death, and Buck could see it fading in JD’s eyes until he couldn’t stand it anymore and looked away. When he looked back a moment later, JD was looking at the floor morosely, and he felt a stab of guilt.

“We’ll ride again, kid,” Buck said quietly, patting JD’s arm. “You and me. And the others. Just as soon as we get back, we’ll look ‘em up and it’ll be just like it used to be. You’ll see.”

JD blinked a few times, and Buck thought he saw a shadow of a smile on JD’s lips as he kept his eyes on the floor. “Buck?”

Buck tilted his head. “Yeah?”

JD looked up at him, and Buck saw in his young, beaten face the struggling essence of a little boy trying very hard to be brave as he gave Buck a faltering half-smile. “You’re still full of crap.”

Buck tried to smile back, but he knew it was a feeble effort; he only hoped JD didn’t pick up on just how hopeless he felt as he looked at that bruised face with its healing scars and fading hope. _San Francisco. It’s all we got now._ With a sigh Buck shrugged and said simply, “I know, JD. I know.”

And moved to help JD back into the bed.

  
  


It was starting to get warm in the little jail as Conklin sat at the sheriff’s desk and went over the paperwork that Gerald had tried to fill out regarding his attack. He shook his head in disgust, and considered having Gerald replaced. The man meant well, but...well, he just couldn’t write worth a damn.

Conklin glanced up at Vin, saw the former bounty hunter was sitting on his cot, just staring ahead. _Gives me the creeps._ Vin was a mystery, and Conklin didn’t like mysteries. He liked things in black and white, easy to read and understand. But this Tanner fellow - hell, all of those hired guns Travis had gotten - they were all not easy to understand, and that vexed Conklin. He’d always been suspicious of them. Well, he chuckled to himself, at least he’d been right. And the proof was right in front of him. Easy to read.

The door opened, and Conklin looked up to see a man he recognized as Matthew Dwight, one of

the town’s coopers. He removed his battered hat upon entering and said, “Mr. Conklin?”

Conklin smiled politely. “Yes?”

Dwight stepped up to the desk. “I’ve heard that you’re asking the hired guns to leave by sundown tonight. Is that true?”

Conklin frowned. “Yes, it is. They’re dangerous, as you can see by my - ”

Dwight shook his head and stepped closer to the desk, his eyes serious. “Mr. Conklin, I’m here to tell you that a lot of people in town think that would be a mistake.”

Conklin leaned back, folded his hands. “Oh?”

Dwight nodded. “This town was pretty bad off before they showed up, and there’s people that are awfully nervous about what could happen if they go, including me.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” Conklin said with a dismissive wave. “Me and my staff can handle anything that happens.”

Dwight leaned his head closer. “Mr. Conklin, have you been to the saloon? There’s some awfully dangerous-looking folks in there. A few I’ve seen before, back before Judge Travis hired those men.”

Conklin sputtered, “Well...well, they’re not - ”

“Now I’ve heard talk,” Dwight said, leaning back, “that a lot of folks don’t agree with you turning those men out, and if you try it they might try and stop you. Now I’m a peaceful man, and I don’t want trouble in this town. We’ve worked too hard to get it where it is. So I thought I’d come over here and let you know what our concerns are.”

Conklin blinked at Dwight. “What do you mean, try and stop me?”

Dwight looked Conklin in the eye and replied, “I don’t know. But I think you ought to consider letting the hired guns stay. Between everything that’s happened and those outlaws in the saloon, I figure we got enough problems.”

Conklin nodded vaguely. “I see. Well, thank you, Mr. Dwight, I’ll...take your suggestion under advisement.”

“I know you don’t think too highly of these men,” Dwight mentioned again, backing toward the door. “but they done a lot of good for the town, and a lot of people don’t want to see them go. And they’re kinda nervous about what might happen, and I thought you ought to know, there might be trouble.”

Conklin fiddled with the papers on his desk, didn’t look at Dwight again even when he opened the door, left, and closed it again.

“Trouble,” Conklin muttered to himself, putting his eyes back to Gerald’s report. “I’ll give them trouble...trying to tell me what to do...” He glanced at Vin again, noticed the tracker was staring past him, out the window. Conklin tried to follow his gaze, noticed three ragged-looking men loitering across the street, picking their teeth and laughing raucously about something.

Outlaws. Conklin felt a twinge of fear. Well...they’re not doing anything. Everyone’s overreacting. He nodded reassuringly to himself, and glanced back at Vin. The former bounty hunter’s expression had changed from one of general unease to...what was it? Recognition? Yes, recognition. And fear. And that was very easy to read.

  
  


Mary noticed the outlaws as she hurried along the street. She didn’t know where she was going exactly, only knew that she had to talk to someone, one of the men, had to stop this farce before it got completely out of hand. How could Conklin tell Orin not to come? How could he be so blind, so full of himself? They needed the men’s help, now more than ever, but Conklin was so - _ooh, why wasn’t I born a man?_ _Then I could slug Conklin across the jaw and feel better._

There were a number of people on the street, but even so Mary saw some distance ahead of her the back of Ezra’s red jacket moving down the walkway. Catching her breath, Mary began to run, not caring if people stared, and a moment later she was close enough to the gambler to snatch at his arm, and at her touch he turned. And after a moment of confusion, smiled.

“Ah, Mrs. Travis,” Ezra said amiably. Studying her face keenly, he said, “I see by your dismayed expression that you’ve been informed of our unemployment.”

“It’s wrong,” Mary said helplessly. “It’s a terrible decision, and I told Conklin so.”

Ezra nodded. “And he reversed it immediately, no doubt.”

Mary sighed, shook her head.

“I thought not. Well, thank you for trying, in any case...”

Ezra turned to go, but Mary grabbed at his arm again.

“Mrs. Travis!” Ezra smiled, and this time Mary saw a twinkle in his eye. “You are certainly endeavoring to get yourself a reputation in this town.”

Mary shook her head in frustration. “I’m sorry, it’s just - Conklin wired the judge. He told him not to come.”

“Did he!” Ezra exclaimed, and he looked genuinely surprised. “The man has more nerve than I thought.”

Mary looked around quickly, dropped her voice to a low whisper. “We’ve got to talk this over. I won’t let Conklin destroy this town with his stupid pride. Are you men leaving soon?”

Ezra replied softly, “Conklin wants us out by sundown. We have until then, at least.”

Mary nodded. “Please, tell Josiah and Buck to come meet me at the newspaper office later this afternoon. We’ve got to think of a way to stop this.”

Ezra saw the seriousness in her eyes, didn’t blink. “I’ll pass it along. But are you certain you can afford to have us come visit you there?”

“It’s the only safe place.” Mary’s look was steel as she faced Ezra. “And I don’t give a damn about my reputation anymore.”

Ezra tugged his hat in parting with a smile, and turning smoothly away from Mary muttered, “Good for you.” and walked away.

Mary shook her head a bit. Of all of them, she had to run into Ezra. Oh well. She lifted up her skirts and went back the way she came, feeling a little better. Yes, she still had things to say. And it would take more than Conklin to keep her from saying them.

  
  


Durning finished another beer and looked around the saloon. He was starting to feel a little fuzzy around the edges, but knew he wasn’t too drunk to notice that, since they’d gotten there that morning, the place was gradually filling up with outlaws.

Boy, that Concho Charles. Durning chuckled to himself as he studied his poker hand. He sure knows what he’s doing. Trickles ‘em in gradually. I’ll bet the law hasn’t even noticed. By tomorrow, we’ll be all set.

Sherson threw Durning a little glare. “Come on, Durning. What do you say?”

Durning returned the glare, looked at his cards, threw in a chip. “I’m in.”

Childers threw in a chip as well. Tims did too, but without the gusto of his companions.

“Whatsa matter, Tims?” Childers asked, his eyes still on his cards. “Losing your nerve?”

“I still don’t like this,” Tims whispered, looking around at the dirty, rough-looking men who were now lounging more conspicuously around the bar. “We’re in over our heads.”

“Oh, shut up,” Durning growled, pulling out a card and throwing it on the table. “You’re giving me a headache.”

Over by the bar, a group of three men were harassing the bartender, shouting at him to get them drinks. The bartender was trying to comply, but obviously not fast enough for one of the men, who pulled out his gun and cocked it. Durning frowned, felt a flash of fear. One gunshot, and the whole place could erupt. He didn’t say anything to the others, but silently mapped out a quick path to the door. Just in case.

Just then Domino appeared through the saloon doors. Scowling, he walked quickly over to the bar and shoved the man with the gun.

“What are you doing?” he hollered, snatching the gun from the man’s hand. Saying something else to him in Spanish, Domino grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him outside. By now many people in the bar were watching, and Durning noticed the combination of respect and fear in the outlaws’ faces as they watched Domino leave.

A few minutes later, Domino returned, casually wiping what sure looked like blood from his knuckles as he sauntered over to the businessmens’ table. The saloon was a little quieter, and Durning noticed that the outlaws seemed to be behaving themselves. For the moment, anyway.

“Hello, my friends,” Domino said lazily, draping himself over a chair and stuffing his bloodied handkerchief in his pocket. “How’s it going?”

“Just peachy,” Durning returned, then asked, “You having problems?”

“Not me, my friend.” Domino shook his head, waved a hand to the men at the bar, who were now regarding him apprehensively. “They are, though. Some of these men, they haven’t seen action in a long time. They’re too eager to start trouble, so I have to remind them to watch themselves until Concho arrives. Now maybe they’re learning, I think. Don’t you?” He finished the sentence with a vicious grin.

Durning didn’t grin, just looked at Domino irritably. “You take care of the newspaper lady yet?”

“All in good time,” Domino replied, holding up his hands defensively. “It’s being dealt with, don’t worry. I have news from Concho.”

Tims jumped a little, looked around swiftly to make sure no one had heard. Durning shook his head at Tims’ nervous behavior and said, “Oh yeah? What’s he say?”

Domino grinned wider. “We’re growing stronger, my friends. He’ll be coming into town, dawn tomorrow, with many of his men. Hold on to your hats.”

“Uh - huh,” Durning said, hardly moving except for his eyes.

“And too,” Domino added, “I hear that the hired guns are leaving. The preacher, the gambling man you fellows hate so much, and the one with the moustache. All gone by sundown.”

Sherson counted mentally. “That’s only three. What about the others?”

Domino shrugged. “We’ll deal with them.”

“And the sheriff?”

Domino snickered. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“So it’s really gonna happen,” Sherson said, smiling. “You guys really are gonna overrun this place.”

“Oh, yes.” Domino rose to his feet. “And you have a front row seat. Exciting, isn’t it?”

“Just let me at that jewelry store,” Durning said under his breath, his eyes on Domino.

“You’ve got it,” Domino replied with a serving smile. “Now, I must go make arrangements for our ladyfriend. See you all later.”

Durning shook his head in awe as he watched Domino leave. “God damn. We’re gonna witness an actual western takeover.”

Tims fanned his cards nervously. “What do you think he meant by ‘arrangements’?”

Durning sighed, and went back to his cards, and said nothing.

  
  


As the afternoon wore on, thick clouds moved in, and it turned a little colder. Nathan returned and found JD awake, and Buck helped him change the boy’s bandages. Buck didn’t really like doing it; most of the time JD’s stomach and arm had been hidden under a wrapping of gauze, so Buck hadn’t had to look at the terrible marks there, the splotches of blue and red on JD’s torso, the black marks where his ribs were only just healing. There was a large bruise on JD’s left arm as well, where he’d hit the brick wall full force, and underneath JD’s fair skin the mark looked monstrous, huge, like it would never heal. Nathan was trying to be as gentle as he could, but still JD sucked in his breath, and fought the pain as his wounds were unbound and checked. Buck hovered close, didn’t want to smother JD with his attention, and knew that the youth didn’t want Nathan thinking he was a big baby. But when the pain became intolerable, it was JD who grabbed Buck’s hand, and squeezed it until both mens’ knuckles turned white. Buck didn’t mind at all.

Finally the dressings were changed, and Nathan mopped JD’s sweating brow with a cool cloth until the boy drifted off to sleep. Then he sighed, gave Buck a tired look and went out onto the porch to smoke a cigar.

After making sure that JD was asleep, Buck rose and walked out onto the balcony, where he found Nathan leaning against the railing, blowing thin ribbons of smoke into the wind.

Buck leaned against the railing too, paused before saying, “I told the boy about San Francisco. He don’t seem to mind goin’.”

Nathan looked at the street below them, took another drag on the cigar. His light eyes were unreadable.

“I could - drop you a line once we get there,” Buck ventured. “Maybe you could come too. Ezra’s got a lot of money - ”

“Now how am I gonna do that, Buck?” Nathan said suddenly, looking at Buck sharply. “I got to stay here, somebody’s got to be here when Chris gets back.”

Buck nodded, unsure how to take Nathan’s outburst. He decided not to take it any way at all, and leaned back on the rail, letting it pass.

Nathan took another puff on his cigar, then said, “Reckon Josiah’ll be goin’ back to the mission. Least he won’t be too far away.”

Buck tilted his head. “Where do you suppose Ezra will end up at?”

“Who knows,” Nathan said with a shake of his head. “Maybe back to St. Louis. Maybe the coast. Lots of places for a man like him.”

Buck felt a small knot of pain in his gut, winced and tried to think it away. It wouldn’t be so bad, maybe it wouldn’t even be for very long. He could see him and JD set up in ‘Frisco, maybe some nice rooms, find a doctor for JD, send letters out to keep in touch. Maybe one day they’d get a letter from Nathan, one that said come on back, somebody needs us. Or just for the hell of it. Come on, let’s ride again.

But Buck sighed. What if JD didn’t get better? Wouldn’t be any fun any more. He knew what his answer to that letter would be. Have a good time, pards. Kick back a few for me and JD.

He sighed, already feeling isolated and lonely. And it hadn’t even started yet.

A couple of minutes went by. Then Nathan asked, “Think you’ll ever forgive him, Buck?”

Buck looked over. “Who? Chris?”

Nathan studied the cigar, nodded.

Buck’s brow furrowed, and he thought. He thought of that morning, was it really just four days ago? Chris hung over, staggering, blaming JD for everything. An arrogant denial in his eyes and manner, no remorse at all, just annoyance. The hair-trigger maniac in the body of his best friend.

Then he thought of JD, how broken he’d been when they found him, so much blood and he didn’t wake up for a whole day. And then, the terror in his eyes when he didn’t recognize anyone. More terror, when he finally had to face what had happened, and then just a little while ago, a little-boy voice saying, we’re never going to ride together again, are we.

Buck thought of all this, shook his head. “I don’t see how.”

Nathan took another drag, nodded slowly. “You think anybody will?”

Buck knew who he was asking about, considered for a moment. “Vin, maybe. Josiah might, he ain’t shocked by much.”

Nathan blew out the smoke. “Ezra?”  
Buck shook his head. “Naw, Ezra’s too mad. That kind of mad stays with a man.”

Nathan stood up, stretched his back muscles. “Think he’ll come back?”

“If he don’t,” Buck hissed, his eyes narrowing, “I’ll lead the posse myself to get him.”

Nathan took another puff of the cigar, shook his head in the afternoon sunshine. “Sure is a crazy world. Last week things were fine. Now we’re talkin’ about gettin’ a posse together to go get Chris, an’ splittin’ up for good. Don’t make sense.”

Buck sighed, shook his head. Then he brought it up, said, “It’s a pretty nice day, ain’t it? Think when JD wakes up, I’ll ask if he wants to come out here. Been cooped up in there long enough, don’t you think?” The reality was too close. He didn’t want to talk about it.

Nathan nodded, and Buck knew he was agreeing to change the subject. “Fresh air ought to do him good. He’d probably like that, Buck.”

Buck turned his head toward the door to Nathan’s room, then back. He gave the healer a little half-smile and went back inside.

Nathan watched him go, then leaned against the railing once more, and blew a thin column of smoke into the cloudy afternoon sky.

  
  


Mary looked up from her desk and noticed how dark it was getting. Frowning, she glanced at the clock; four-thirty. Hm, we must be getting more rain.

She got up, walked to the front door and looked out the window. It was definitely darker than usual for this time of day, and people were casting uncertain looks to the leaden sky as they walked along the street. Mary glanced a short way down the street, saw a small knot of rugged-looking men loitering around the horse trough. A shiver went down her spine.

_Maybe Orin will disregard Conklin’s telegram and come anyway._ She drew the shade down against the glowering afternoon. _Conklin can’t handle a town full of bandits on his own, and even if the hired guns stay..._

Oh, Lord. Mary groaned as she drew the other windowshade down. It feels just like it used to; the constant fear, the helplessness, it feels just like it did before. She almost thought that if she looked out the window again, she would see pine boards across the storefronts across the street, see desperadoes thundering through the town, shooting their guns at anything that moved.

But maybe this time it would be different.

It already is different, a voice answered her. This time Chris Larabee isn’t around to stop it.

Mary suppressed a shudder and turned from the door. It was gloomy in the small office now; there was no light except the lone lamp on her desk, and it wasn’t turned up bright enough. She walked over to the lamp, turned the small metal knob to bring the wick up, and at that moment she heard the door open and looked up.

Ezra - no, wait a minute. An unfamiliar outline, unknowable against the light from outside. Squinting, Mary finished turning up the light, saw a dark-complected man standing in the doorway, with two other men behind him.

Her defenses sprang up as she turned away from the desk. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the man replied in a light Spanish accent, walking into the office. The other two men followed him in, and Mary suddenly realized that they were all very big men, and they were very solidly between her and the door. “My name is Domino Jiminez. I understand you run the newspaper.”

“Yes,” Mary said, trying not to sound angry or defensive, but she backed around her desk, to where she knew her pistol was lying in the top left-hand drawer.

“Ah, good.” Domino nodded and smiled at her, his eyes glittering like a snake’s in the half-dark. “I’ve been asked by a third party to...well, not to be too vulgar about it, I’ve been asked to shut you up.”  
“Is that right?” Mary asked, a little more archly than she had intended. The drawer was right in front of her now.

“Yes, ma’am.” Domino tilted his head, grinned salaciously at her. “And it’s always a pleasure to carry out these requests when a beautiful woman is involved.”

Without being told to, the two men standing toward the back turned and walked back toward the door, opened it and went outside.

Mary’s eyes flicked to them, and Domino saw her look and explained, “They will see that we are not disturbed...Mary, is it? I never do these things alone. Affects my concentration.”

Mary glared at him, hoping she was at least a little intimidating. Her hand crept toward the drawer, very slowly.

“Now.” Domino cracked his knuckles, walked toward her in a leisurely way. “We can do this easy, or difficult. Easy, and you will still be able to move after this is all over. Difficult, and well, let’s just say you don’t want to do it difficult.”

“Get out of here,” Mary hissed through clenched teeth. Her fingers touched the drawer pull.

Domino’s head came back in surprise, and he grinned again. “Aha, so you do have some fire in you! This will be f - ”

Lightning fast, Mary yanked open the drawer, gripped the pistol in one sweaty hand and yanked it out.

Domino jumped at her.

The gun went off.

He slammed her against the floor.

“Now that wasn’t nice,” he said lightly as he firmly held both her wrists against the cold floor. She held onto the gun, struggled against his hold, but he was easily twice her size and a panic gripped her when she realized she was trapped. He squeezed her wrist, and Mary felt her hand go numb. The gun rattled to the floor.

Domino looked up, saw the small bedroom in the back of Mary’s office, and a smile crept over his face.

“Well, now,” His grip on Mary’s wrists tightened, and he stood up, pulling her to her feet. “No reason to be uncomfort - ”

Mary screamed, in anger and fear, and tried to knee Domino in the groin. Her long, tight skirt trapped her legs, however, and Domino gave her a small glare and slapped her.

“Shuttup,” he growled, grabbed her shoulders and shook her as he looked her in the eye, and his eyes were the bottomless wells of an absent soul. “Who’s going to come anyway? Think that stupid sheriff would come within twenty feet of my men?”

_Don’t panic._ Mary stared at this loathsome man whose face was mere inches from hers. Her hair was falling in her eyes, and she tasted blood in her mouth, but she maintained an iron grip on her will, and whispered, “There’s still law in this town.”

“Ha!” Domino clapped his big, dirty hand over Mary’s mouth and began to drag her toward the bedroom. “If you call that trembling little man law. Maybe one of my men will go get him, and he can watch, eh?”

Mary struggled, knew it was probably futile but she had to try. The front door was fading, getting smaller, and her panic threatened to overwhelm her. Summoning her last ounce of courage, Mary bit down on her attacker’s hand as hard as she could.

“Aargh!” Domino yelled, and threw Mary down on her bed. She scrambled backward, but with animal swiftness he grabbed her by the throat, and pinned her to the bed.

“You bitch!” he roared, and struck her again. “Are you really so stupid?”

Mary discovered she couldn’t breathe. Her hands went up, clawed at Domino’s wrist as he shook his head menacingly.

“For that, I think I’ll kill you.” he growled. “For that, this is going to be very painf - ”

Suddenly something hurtled through the window of Mary’s bedroom, shattering the glass into a thousand directions. Mary turned away as best she could, closed her eyes. Domino jumped backwards, releasing his tight hold on her throat.

The object unrolled itself, stood up, glass shards dripping off like shimmering rain.

It was Ezra.

Mary threw herself backwards off the bed, landing between the bed and the wall. Ezra flicked his wrist, and his derringer flew into his hand and aimed itself at Domino’s head.

“Please relinquish your gun, sir,” Ezra said, his green eyes deadly.

Domino laughed. “You must be joking.” His hand flew for his holster.

Ezra fired.

Domino fell back, dead.

Mary screamed.

Ezra shook his head, turned to Mary and held his hand out. “Mrs. Travis, are you - “

Mary peered up at him just as one of Domino’s men appeared in the window behind Ezra.

“Ezra!” she cried out, just as the man jumped through the window and grabbed him.

They fell together, into the bedroom. Ezra hit the floor hard, face down, and the other man had his pistol out and hurriedly cocked it. Before he could fire, however, Mary tackled him, and the two rolled over into the main office.

“Goddamn bitch,” the man muttered, and before she could focus clearly Mary felt something strike her very hard on the side of the head, and she slumped to the floor, dazed. She heard footsteps, felt someone run by her into the bedroom, heard the sounds of a huge fight going on, but she had to fight to get past the humming in her head.

Blurry shapes, struggling before her in the dim lamplight. Oh, my. Two men, and Ezra, tearing up my living quarters. Oh - Oh, God -

She staggered to her feet, her throat still burning from where Domino had strangled her. The two men had ganged up on Ezra, who was nevertheless putting up a hell of a fight. She lurched toward where her gun still lay on the floor, but her head throbbed unmercifully and she couldn’t trust her aim. She fired the gun once anyway, hoping to at least frighten the men, but they didn’t even notice. She saw Ezra throw a solid punch, then sink to the floor, the other two men piling on top of him.

Oh, God. She fought to clear her head, and stumbled toward the door, into the fresh air. “Help!” she heard herself call out, and people were staring at her, but no one was moving, and Mary felt herself starting to slip, and screamed out, “Help!”

Suddenly someone grabbed her from the side, and Mary screamed out again and struggled, then turned her head and saw that it was Buck.

“Oh!” she gasped, slumping gratefully against him. She knew it looked scandalous; she could not have possibly cared less.

Buck’s eyes were full of shock and concern, but she stammered, “Ezra - he’s - ”

“Hush now,” Buck said quietly, steering her away from the door as he peered into the office. “Josiah’s taking care of that. You just sit right here.”

Sitting? Was she sitting? Oh, yes, she was. Mary blinked, and the world swam before her eyes as she saw Buck reach into his holster and pull out his gun. Then someone drew a curtain over her eyes, and the world went black.

  
  


Vin walked back and forth in the cell, stopping every once in a while to glance at Conklin, who was conferring with Gerald in low tones. He couldn’t quite hear what they were saying, but he heard a few words that suggested to him that they were discussing what to do if his friends didn’t make it out of town by sundown.

Words like “renegades”. Words like “shotgun”. And “run them out.”

Vin shook his head, paced the cell. He hoped Buck got JD out of town, felt a stab of remorse that if he had, Vin would likely never see them again. Probably he’d get out of this all right, but he didn’t know how long he’d be in that little cell, and when he got out Buck and JD would be at least on their way to...to wherever they decided to go.

Well, Chris might be back by then... but there was no comfort in that rumination. Vin had no idea what state of mind Chris would be in, or if he would even return. Vin knew Chris’ demons, knew they’d dog him. He also knew what a man alone with his guilt was capable of, and couldn’t ignore the awful fear that was burning a hole in his gut. It was possible that Chris might not even be alive anymore.

And even if he was, if he came back...the others would be gone, and the judge wouldn’t be very likely to hire Chris on again. So then what? Vin sighed, and thought of the mountains, the freedom there. He could go there, and be happy. Maybe forget.

But Chris would be carrying this for the rest of his life. No getting away from that, and no way Vin could help him either. Except go with him, watch his back, and watch Chris destroy himself. After this, probably nobody else would want that job. But Vin felt it was perhaps the right thing to do. Chris would need him, the Chris that was under all that madness. And Vin would go where he was needed.

Simple as that.

Vin had walked to the little cot and sat down again when the door burst open, and one of the townspeople ran in, a terrified look on his face.

“Mary Travis was just attacked!” he blurted.

Vin jumped up to the bars, grabbed them in shock.

“What!” Conklin yelped.

The citizen nodded. “Happened just a few minutes ago, in her office.”

“Well - “ Conklin stared at the floor for a moment. “Well, is she all right?”

“She looked a little beat up,” the man replied. “That moustached gunslinger was taking her over to Nathan’s.”

“Moust - ” Conklin put his hands on his hips. “I told them to stay out of these things!”

The man paused, looked confused. “Well - they saved her, Mr. Conklin. Him and that big fella, the preacher, they got the men that were attacking her. One of ‘em’s dead, the other two are still in her office I think. Gambler fella got beat up too, pretty bad.”

Vin gripped the bars tighter, wanted to ask, couldn’t.

Conklin threw Gerald an exasperated look. “Why didn’t anybody get me? I’m the law here, not them! Doesn’t anybody pay attention in this town?”

Gerald shrugged, cast a glance at Vin. The former bounty hunter looked down, cursed the bars that shut him off from the world and his friends.

Conklin looked at the citizen. “Where are they now?”

“I don’t know.” The citizen shrugged. “At Nathan’s, I guess. The preacher told me to come get you, and he and the moustached fella took Mary and the gambler and took off.”

Conklin appeared to think.

The citizen hesitated, spoke up. “Mr. Conklin? Those men that attacked Mrs. Travis, there kind of seems to be a lot of them in town right now. You might want to do something about it, the folks around here are getting kind of nervous.”

Conklin nodded, as if he hadn’t really heard. After a moment, he glanced at the citizen and waved him off. “Thank you, son. You can go now.”

The citizen nodded, looked at Vin in a way that suggested to him that the citizen sort of wished he weren’t locked up, and hurried out.

Gerald looked at Conklin, stood up. “Well, I’d better get the handcuffs...”

“Can you believe the nerve of those men?” Conklin groused. “Stepping in on my territory. What do I have to do, draw them a map?”

Gerald glanced toward the empty cell next to Vin. “Uh - Conklin, I think we should go get those men who attacked Mrs. Travis...”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” He looked up at Vin, and walked over to him, disgust written all over his face. “You hired guns, you’re all alike. Just can’t stop yourself from taking the law into your own hands.”

Vin just looked at him steadily, and didn’t respond.

Conklin paused a moment, frowned. “Well, we’ll see how far they get. Gerald, go get those two felons and put ‘em in the other cell.” He turned, and walked toward the door.

Gerald gave Conklin a surprised look as he fished the handcuffs out of the desk drawer. “Where are you going?”

“Me?” Conklin barked, one hand on the doorknob. “I’m going to make sure those gunslingers get out of my town, and stay out. For good!”

And stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

It only seemed a second later when Mary opened her eyes and found herself staring at the ceiling in Nathan’s room.

She blinked, confused for a moment. Her head hurt like hell; her throat burned, and her wrists felt as if they’d been held by ropes. She swallowed, tried to sit up, thought better of it and laid back down.

A face hovered close to her. Nathan, and he looked very worried. “Miz Travis?”

Mary’s eyes wandered to him, and she winced, brought her hand up to her head.

Nathan smiled reassuringly at her, laid a cool cloth on her head. “You gonna be all right, ma’am. Gotta bump on the head is all.”

Mary nodded, of course. But -

She sat up a little too fast, felt dizzy. “There was a fight, at the office. Mr. Standish - ”

“Yes, ma’am.” Nathan eased her back down. “Don’t worry, he ain’t too bad hurt. We may not be the law any more, but we still know how to throw a few punches.”

Mary almost laughed, but she still felt dizzy. Slower this time, she sat up and looked around. The room was a little darker than her office. “How long was I unconscious?”

“’Bout half an hour.” Nathan replied, his expert hands feeling the bump on her head.

Mary saw Ezra then, stretched out on the floor several feet away, his back against the wall. He looked terrible. His clothes were torn and bloodied, his face was scratched and bruised, and he was dabbing at a split lip with his handkerchief and looking into a pocket mirror.

He looked up at Mary and smiled. “Ah, Mrs. Travis. I had a humorous line about chivalry being not quite dead, but you’ll forgive me if I save it for another occasion.” He coughed, and made a face before going back to his lip.

“Oh.” Mary suddenly felt terrible, eased herself off the bed and, as Nathan walked with her, knelt by the gambler’s side. He looked worse close up, all banged up and cut, but at least he hadn’t gotten himself killed. “Oh, Ezra, thank you. You saved my life.”

She put her hand on his arm, and Ezra swallowed and raised his eyebrows. “Mrs. Travis, it would appear your earlier remark about being unconcerned about your reputation is more than accurate. After this, we may have to get married.”

Nathan chuckled. “Nice try, Ezra. This is about as close as you’re ever gonna get to a respectable woman.”

Ezra shot him a look. “Merely making the suggestion, Mr. Jackson. After all, we only have until sundown to protect this fine lady, and I have no time for dalliance.”

Mary stood up, slowly, found she didn’t feel dizzy anymore and looked around the room.

To her quizzical look, Nathan replied, “JD’s sittin’ outside. He’s been feelin’ kind of down, and Buck thought he should get some fresh air. Come on.”

Mary walked toward the door, turned to see Ezra heaving himself off the floor, with Nathan’s help. She walked to the door, opened it and went outside.

It was still cloudy, smelled like rain, but it hadn’t started yet. Mary saw Josiah and Buck lounging against the railing of Nathan’s balcony, and they both stood up straight and tugged at their hats as soon as they saw her. JD was seated nearby, in a chair with a blanket covering his legs. He looked pale and wan in the gray light, and his eyes looked so sad, but he smiled when he saw her and said softly, “Hi, Mrs. Travis.”

Mary smiled back, at all of them. Nathan guided her to a seat across from JD, and she suddenly felt a strange sense of warmth, familiarity. They all looked concerned about her, but it felt good, it felt like when Stephen was alive, or when she was a little girl and her parents watched out for her. After everything that had happened, after the town had practically spit on them, they hadn’t abandoned her.

Mary looked at the sea of faces around her. _They’re good men. And I’m going to be damned if I let them go._

“How are you feeling, Mrs. Travis?” Buck asked, sincere concern in his brown eyes.

“I’m fine, Mr. Wilmington,” Mary replied, and tried to show it, because she knew that all Buck had done for the past four days was worry, and she felt guilty adding any more to it.

Ezra sat himself down with a groan against the railing opposite the wall, and as he did so Josiah said, “Mrs. Travis, do you know who the men were who attacked you?”

“Um - ” Mary’s mind went reluctantly back. “The man who was shot said he was Domino Jiminez. I think he must have been part of a gang.”

“Hm,” Josiah said, frowning. “That he was. We’ve all been watching these outlaws trickle into town all day long. But up till now, they been pretty quiet.”

Mary thought. “He said he’d been asked by someone else to shut me up. I can only assume someone doesn’t want me to expose Mr. Conklin’s witness for what he is.”

Ezra’s expression grew puzzled. “And what’s that, Mrs. Travis?”

Mary looked at him. “A liar, Mr. Standish.”

Josiah crossed his arms. “Are you sure?”

Mary nodded firmly. “His story just doesn’t make sense. If Conklin wasn’t so blinded by pride and his conviction that you’re all a bunch of - ” Her eyes shot to JD suddenly, and she stopped herself. He shouldn’t be hearing this, she thought with a twinge of guilt. JD hadn’t really known a lot of what had been happening while he was bedridden, and Mary wasn’t sure how he’d react to it. But JD wasn’t looking at her, was in fact gazing absently at the blanket that covered his lap, picking at it with his good hand. She bit her lip and continued, “He’s positive that Vin is guilty, but it isn’t true. Conklin won’t listen to me, but I can prove it.”

“If we can keep you alive long enough to get your paper printed,” Josiah said, gazing out into the streets.

Mary nodded, and sighed, but the truth was that as long as she was within that knot of men on the porch, she felt as if the demons of hell could assail her and she’d be safe. Even though they were missing their leader; even though one of them was injured, and another crippled, she still felt safer there than she thought she could have in a house covered with locks and steel bars. How odd. But it felt wonderful.

Footsteps could be heard hurrying up the wooden stairs, and all heads turned to see Gloria Potter rush across the balcony toward them, her face flushed and covered with worry.

“Mary, my God!” she exclaimed, going to her friend’s side and taking her hands. “Are you all right?”

Mary tried to smile reassuringly. “I’m fine, Gloria. Thanks to Mr. Standish and the others. They saved my life.”

Gloria nodded, pressed Mary’s hands for a moment, then let them go and turned to the men. “Everyone’s talking about what you men did. I’ll never be grateful enough.”

“Our pleasure, ma’am,” Josiah said, with a tug of his hat. “Mrs. Travis has been mighty kind to us in the past. We figured we owed her one, before ridin’ off into the sunset.”

“Well, you might not have to,” Gloria said, looking around, her face a mixture of happiness and concern. “After what you done this afternoon, there’s been talk that if Conklin tries to make you leave, he’ll be in for a world of trouble.”

JD looked up. The men all looked at each other, and Buck asked, “What do you mean, Mrs. Potter?”

“Well...” Gloria took a breath. “Conklin’s been saying that if you’re not gone by sunset he’ll get the town council together with shotguns and make you leave. But after this...well, a lot of folks think Conklin should give up his badge, and let you men take things over till the judge gets here.”

“The judge - ” Mary said quickly, then found she had to swallow before getting the rest of it out. “Conklin wired the judge, and told him not to come.”

Gloria’s jaw dropped. After a moment she said, “That fool. Well, it’s settled then. Whatever happens, you men have to stay here. We’ll be lost if you go.”

The men traded more uneasy looks. Josiah said, “We want to stay, Mrs. Potter, but the last thing this town needs is you folks at each others’ throats. As many people as want us to stay, just as many would be happy to see us go. And they’ll all have guns.”

“But you can’t leave.” Gloria said, evenly but with just a trace of anxiety in her mellow voice, “There’s an outlaw element here that Conklin can’t handle. Once you go, all hell will break loose.”

There was slight pause. Nathan nodded and said, “She’s right, you know. Me and JD got leave to stay, but we can’t take an outlaw gang on by ourselves.”

JD’s head came up, for a second, then went down again. Mary noticed Buck was watching the youth, and his expression was full of concern.

“So our choices are indeed between Scylla and Charibdis,” Ezra muttered, almost to himself.

“What and who?” Buck tilted his head toward the gambler.

“Greek mythology,” Josiah explained with a sigh, “Ancient sailors would find themselves between Scylla, a giant whirlpool, and Charibdis, two rocks that would crush any ship that came between them. Two choices, both bad.”

“Hm,” Buck said thoughtfully, “We stay, and cause a riot. Or we go, and this place goes to hell.”

“Precisely,” Ezra said, turning his beaten face to Buck with an appreciative nod. “You can be taught, Mr. Wilmington.”

Gloria’s dark eyes flitted among the men. “So what are you going to do?”

Once again, heads turned, eyes locked to each other. And for a moment, no one said anything.

  
  


It was during that time, when they were all standing there thinking, that Buck noticed that JD wasn’t looking down anymore. He was staring past Buck, out into the street, a melancholy expression on his face. Curious, the gunslinger glanced over his shoulder.

A short distance away from them, on the main street, Buck saw a dark-haired girl leaning against a post outside the general store and chatting with a young man on a horse. They were teasing each other, laughing and happy, and as Buck watched the young man put out his hand, and helped the girl up into his saddle. She put her arms around him, and they rode down the street and out of sight, still laughing.

Wincing, Buck turned back to JD, saw the stricken look on the youth’s face, knew what he was thinking. JD saw him looking, lowered his gaze quickly and pressed his lips together, embarrassed and distraught.

Dammit, Buck thought, he don’t deserve this. We’re all rolling over and showing our bellies, and that ain’t what JD needs right now. He needs us to stand up for something, let him know it ain’t right to run...

Almost before he knew he was saying it, Buck cleared his throat and said, “What the hell. Let’s stay.”

JD looked up. Everybody looked at Buck. Ezra blinked at him and said, “May I ask what your reasoning behind this decision is, Mr. Wilmington?”

Buck glanced at JD, just for a moment, saw those wounded hazel eyes, just as quickly looked away and began to pace as he talked. “Well, hell, I mean, the judge, he hired us to look over this town, right? He knew we weren’t gonna win no popularity contests. Dang, half the time we been here we been savin’ these people from themselves! This ain’t no different.”

The men were looking at each other. Mary and Gloria nodded in agreement.

“So...” Buck continued pacing, waving his hands for emphasis. “So now, we got a mess of outlaws lookin’ to ambush the town, and we know what’ll happen if we run off. Now I don’t know about you-all, but I ain’t in no hurry to explain to the judge why we let his town get all shot up. No sir, no hurry at all.”

Nathan folded his arms. “What about Conklin?”

“Oh, don’t give him no never mind!” Buck gave a dismissing wave of his hands. “He’s just like a scared jackrabbit, they all are. They might put up a fuss, but if these outlaws start making themselves known I got a feelin’ they’ll be mighty glad we stuck around.”

“Very optimistic, Mr. Wilmington,” Ezra noted. “But convincing the local law enforcement that we are needed here will not be easy.”

“Easy!” Buck leaned against the railing and laughed. “Shit, Ezra, it’s gonna be about as easy as peeling a rattlesnake. I know it ain’t gonna be easy. But it’ll be right.”

Josiah regarded Buck thoughtfully, rubbed his chin. He was smiling faintly, which Buck took as a sign of encouragement and, boldened, he continued.

“It ain’t right, us splittin’ up, and you all know it. We can scatter to the four winds one day, but now ain’t the time. We signed on here to do a job, and until that job is done or we die doin’ it, I say we stay right here and - and keep an eye on Vin and make sure Mary’s safe and - ” Buck’s eye fell on JD, who was looking at him with a kind of anguished hope. And watch over JD, Buck thought, but didn’t say it; that would embarrass the boy, and he didn’t need reminding of his limitations right now. He needed hope. “ - and make sure this place is still in one piece when the judge arrives. And he will, I don’t think he’s gonna pay Conklin’s telegram any mind at all. There’s only one way we’re gonna do this, and that’s together. And you all know it.”

There was a long pause. Nobody moved for a moment, and Buck let out a long sigh, was unaware that he’d been holding his breath. He looked at everyone’s faces, his friends, and in their eyes he saw that they agreed with him. The town needed them, needed their protection, and there was only one way they could do it.

Together.

Josiah spoke first, tilting his head and scratching his ear. “We stay, and there could be some resistance. Still...I guess we’ll stand a better chance against Conklin than this town will against those bandits.”

Gloria smiled a little, hopefully clutching her hands together. “Then you’ll stay?”

Josiah looked around at the eyes of his companions. He nodded slightly, a question. Received nods in return. Nathan looked determined, Ezra skeptical but committed. Buck’s face was flushed, and his eyes were glowing with relief and pride. Josiah glanced at JD, and Buck noticed that the youth was staring at the preacher with hazel eyes that seemed to overflow with the question, you’re staying? Like a child, Buck thought, disbelieving hope. You’re staying? Really?

Josiah looked at Gloria. “Yes, ma’am. I hope it ain’t a mistake.”

“It won’t be.” Gloria said happily. “We need you. Even if Conklin doesn’t think so.”

Josiah nodded, and Gloria reached out and gave him a grateful squeeze on his arm before turning to Mary and saying, “It’ll be sunset soon. I’ll tell everyone what you’ve all decided, and maybe this will make the outlaws leave.”

Mary smiled and watched as Gloria made her way out of the group and toward the staircase. It was starting to get darker; even though they couldn’t see the sun, Mary knew sundown was not far away. She was still worried, but...maybe now it wouldn’t be so bad. She glanced at the others, saw a mixture of resignation and determination on their faces as they began to move about the balcony, stretching and talking quietly about the night ahead. Nathan was helping Ezra to his feet; Buck was talking to JD, or trying to - the boy still looked sad and preoccupied, despite his obvious relief that his friends weren’t going anywhere. Josiah walked over to Nathan and Ezra, and the three talked together in low tones.

Yes, Mary thought as she watched the quiet scene on the balcony, maybe things would improve. The men would stay, come hell or high water. And knowing Four Corners, they were likely to get plenty of both.

  
  


The saloon was getting noisier. Durning noticed it when he had to start talking louder because Sherson, who was sitting opposite him as they played poker, couldn’t hear him calling cards anymore. It looked like Sherson noticed it too, and the others. And they all looked nervous about it.

Durning was too, he had to admit. Steadily, all day, the place had been filling up with what he called the scum of humanity - dirty-looking bandits, scarred desperados, and some men who looked like they’d as soon kill you as look at you. They were a surly bunch too, drinking and arguing and occasionally, pulling guns on each other. The regular patrons, the men Durning had been talking to the last four days, had come in for a few minutes, then left, looking warily over their shoulders as they did so. Durning didn’t blame them.

In fact, maybe going back to the hotel wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Concho’s men scared him. They all looked a little insane, and if it wasn’t for that Domino keeping a rein on them Durning was sure they’d have starting tearing things up already. Concho wanted to wait until the gunslingers were gone to start wrecking, which made sense, but Durning hadn’t seen Domino in over an hour, and this bunch was getting rowdier by the minute. Things were going to get out of control quick if that big guy didn’t show up, and Durning was just starting to get nervous enough to suggest that maybe they go back to the hotel when the saloon doors opened and another outlaw came in, his face wild with - what was it? Anger? Happiness? Looked like some bizarre hybrid of the two.

Tims noticed the outlaw’s entrance, leaned over to Durning. “I don’t like this. Where’s Domino?”

Durning shook his head, watched the outlaw say something in loud, drunken tones to the nearest group of bandits. They all jumped up, startled, and scattered, and it looked like they were spreading some kind of news. Durning suddenly thought of 1865, when President Lincoln was killed. The telegraph came, and everybody had to know, ran out onto the streets, the same hysterical immediacy. Durning slowly stood up.

Childers glared at him. “What’s with you?”

Durning looked around at the ripple of reaction as the news spread. Guns were coming out, they were grinning, talking excitedly and nodding at each other.

“Something’s happened,” Durning said. “I think somebody got killed.”

“Who?” Sherson turned around in his seat, tried to decipher what they were seeing.

Durning shook his head again, didn’t like the cold feeling that was wrapping around him. He turned around to a pair of ragged outlaws that were standing over a table behind them. They looked almost overjoyed, loading their guns rapidly, and when they noticed him staring at them one of them, a consumptive-looking fellow with rotten teeth and a long beard, barked. “What the hell do you want?”

“What happened?” Durning asked, trying not to look scared.

The blond outlaw laughed, nudged his partner. “That Domino bastard’s got himself killed tryin’ to kill the newspaper lady. Party’s startin’, boys!” He whooped, aimed his gun at the ceiling, and fired.

 _Jesus Christ._ Tims and Sherson stood up beside him. “Party?”

“Hell, son!” The other outlaw, a grizzled old-timer, shook his head as he grinned with half his teeth missing. “Don’t you know there’s a tracker sittin’ in the jail that’s worth five hundred dollars in the state of Texas? Most of these fellers been stewin’ in here all day, waiting for a crack at ‘im. Now there ain’t no reason to delay!”

“What about the law?” Tims asked, in shock.

The two outlaws laughed, and the old one said, “Sonny, once we get our hands on ‘em there ain’t gonna be no law!”

Durning turned around, faced the others with a white face as random gunshots began to ring out through the bar. “Shit!”

“What do we do now?” Childers asked as the throng surged around them.

“We gotta get out of here,” Durning said. He scooped his money into his hands, dumped it in his pocket, and waved his hand. “Come on. We’ll go back to the hotel and wait this thing out.”

“Domino tried to kill that lady,” Tims cried as they all gathered their things from the table. “I told you!”

“Shut up, Tims,” Durning retorted, turning around again and cursing. The place was very loud now, loud and crowded and full of drunk men waving their guns around.

“Shit,” he hissed again, and with the others at his heels began to push his way through the dangerous crowd, and toward the swinging doors.

  
  


Conklin didn’t pay attention to the roiling mob in the saloon. His face was set, his mind determined as he led the group of council members down the street toward Nathan Jackson’s room. They were all there, that’s what somebody told him. It was getting dark, Conklin was sure that, despite the thick clouds overhead that made it hard to tell, the sun was setting. The sun was setting, and those bullheaded gunslingers were still there. Well, he’d see about that.

They passed the jail, and Conklin quickly sidestepped, opened the door. Gerald was lighting a few lamps to combat the gloom, and in the yellow light Conklin could see the tracker’s light form, sitting lazily on the cot.

Gerald was looking past Conklin, at the group of men with guns and torches behind him.

“Those hired guns won’t budge,” Conklin rasped. “So get things ready, we’ll probably be bringin’ a few of ‘em back here.”

Gerald opened his mouth. “Conklin, are you sure - ”

“Don’t question me, dammit!” Conklin barked. “Just be prepared.” He ignored the fact that Vin had stood up, and was approaching the bars with a worried look on his face, and slammed the door.

Gerald looked at Vin, saw the concerned look on the former buffalo hunter’s face as the shadows from the bars flickered over his face, his hair.

“You best get ready, Mr. Townsend,” Vin said softly. “Because I think things are about to go straight to hell.”

  
  


Josiah was standing at the balcony, looking down into the darkening street when he saw a small crowd approaching, bristling with torches and guns. Shaking his head, he turned and walked into Nathan’s room.

Buck had just finished settling JD back into the bed, and Nathan was lighting lamps while Mary unfolded a clean blanket. Ezra was sitting in one corner, calmly loading his gun and trying not to wince at the pain in his pummeled arms and ribs. They all looked up at Josiah, and he gave them a grim smile.

“Ready for a righteous fight?” he said lightly. Buck and Nathan looked at each other and started for the door.

Nathan looked over at Ezra, who was struggling to stand up, and shook his head. “Ezra, you stay here and look after JD and Mrs. Travis, just in case this thing gets out of hand.”

Ezra took a step forward, looked a bit disappointed, but a shooting pain up his leg made him reluctantly lower his gun.

“Smart man,” Nathan said, and he walked out the door, closely followed by Josiah.

Buck was last, and paused at the foot of JD’s bed. The youth hadn’t said a word since they’d brought him back in, and wasn’t looking at them now. Instead, he was sitting hunched down in the bed, his eyes riveted on his good hand, which clutched the blanket in silent frustration. Buck glanced around, saw JD’s Colt Lightnings sitting in their holsters on the small table under the front window. He walked to the table, picked the guns up and brought them to the nightstand by JD’s bed. The boy glanced up, saw them, and turned curious eyes to Buck.

“Thought you might be needin’ these,” Buck said with a quiet smile. “ You got to keep in practice, for when we get back from San Francisco.”

JD looked at the guns, blinked at them. Buck walked quickly to the door, pausing only momentarily to look back.

JD was touching the ivory grip of one gun with his good hand, looking at them with an almost frightened expression. Then he gingerly gripped the firearm and slowly drew it out.

Buck smiled and nodded in satisfaction. It wasn’t over yet.

And left the room.

  
  


It seemed to take an eternity to walk down those wooden steps, toward those torches and guns. They walked silently, Josiah taking the lead, Buck and Nathan behind him. When they got to the bottom, Josiah cast his gray eyes on Conklin, who was standing at the front of a group of about a dozen men, all armed. Conklin himself had a shotgun, and in the firelight his sheriff’s badge gleamed ominously.

“I told you men to clear out,” he growled. “Now this is your last chance.”

Josiah put his hands out, and his face was gentle as he said, “We talked it over, sheriff. All of us. We decided it would be in this town’s best interests if we discussed with you the possibility of letting us stay.”

Conklin gasped, looked behind him at the grim-faced councilmen shaking their heads. “You’re crazy! Thinking I’d let you murderers ruin this town. One of you tried to kill me! You think I’m a fool?”

“No, sir,” Josiah said calmly. “But it don’t take a fool to see that there might be some trouble for this town, and we just want to make sure you folks is safe. And we don’t think leaving would be very safe, for you.”

Conklin scowled, and opened his mouth to object when another voice cut in.

“Listen to him, Mr. Conklin.”

Everyone looked over to their left. It was Gloria Potter, leading a group of about twenty citizens, and to his dismay Josiah saw that many of them had guns too, their barrels glimmering in the torchlight. Emmie Walters was there, holding her broom, and Matthew Dwight, brandishing a shotgun.

Gloria looked at Conklin steadily and said, “We’ve been trying to talk to you, Mr. Conklin, but you don’t seem to want to hear us. We think this town would be better off if Mr. Sanchez and his friends stayed here, to protect it.”

Conklin’s scowl grew deeper. “I appreciate your point of view, Mrs. Potter, but surely you haven’t forgotten how this all got started? Their leader - the man who heads their group! - he beat another man senseless, and took off with their help. And then his second in command shoots me. How can you defend such actions?”

“We can’t,” Buck said suddenly, coming up to stand beside Josiah in the faltering light. His face was set, solemn as he said, “Mr. Conklin, you may not believe me seein’ as how I’m a gunslinger an’ all, but if there’s anybody on the face of this earth that hates Chris Larabee as much as I do now, I’d like to meet ‘im. He didn’t get no help from me, and won’t till he pays for what he done. I just want things set right, but I don’t think they will be unless you let us stay and do the job Judge Travis asked us to do. And that includes making sure you don’t all get yourselves killed.”

Conklin raised his shotgun, cocked it. “I’m telling you for the last time. You’re going.”

Josiah looked behind him, then at the group huddled behind Gloria, all scared and counting on them. He looked at Conklin and regretfully shook his head.

Conklin paused, glaring at Josiah with open contempt. Everyone in both groups stopped moving. Time seemed to slow down, stop, and for a long moment everything in the world stood still.

A few moments later, it exploded.

  
  


The crowd in the saloon was undulating, bumping Durning as he made his slow way to the door. “Dammit!” he cursed.

Another gun went off, nearby, and Tims winced.

The outlaws were shouting, some in English, some in Spanish, and the businessmen could tell the bubble was about to burst.

“Run for the hotel,” Durning yelled, hoping he was being heard over the chaos. “We gotta get our stuff out of there before somebody busts the doors down and takes it!”

A few of the outlaws were pushing their way out the door as well, and when Durning finally popped out onto the saloon porch he saw more riding in, serious-looking and with large guns. Looking down the street, he saw a couple of groups with torches by the black doctor’s room.

“Huh.” He nudged Tims, nodded down the street. “Look at that. The kid must have died.”

Tims looked, his mouth dropped open.

Behind them, outlaws began to surge drunkenly in the streets. They shouted at each other, and Durning heard the words “bounty” and “jail”.

He shook his head, and with the others began to walk very quickly toward the safety of the hotel.

  
  


Josiah heard shouts coming from the saloon, glanced over in that direction, over the heads of Conklin and his men.

“Sheriff,” he said evenly, “I think you got troubles.”

Conklin looked around, saw the throng of unruly outlaws spreading themselves out onto the street.

“Aw, crap!” He lowered his shotgun.

At that moment, a gun went off in the distance. Two.

Gloria started, and Emmie turned white.

“Now, don’t worry, ladies.” Conklin waved his free hand, and made a halfhearted move toward the noise. “We’ll get this taken care of...”

“We?” one of the councilmen asked archly. “We’re not the law, Conklin. That’s what we voted you in for!”

Conklin looked genuinely shocked, and looked around himself almost dazedly. Some of the councilmen wandered away; about six stayed.

Josiah said, “Men, I suggest you get these ladies to a place of safety, and quick. This looks like it could get dangerous.”

Most of the men in both groups complied, breaking up and taking the arms of the women, leading them away nervously. Somewhere, glass shattered, and more gunfire erupted. There were more outlaws in the street now, many more, and Buck said almost sarcastically, “Well, come on, sheriff! Go do your job!”

Conklin took a step forward, two, but he seemed uncertain where to start.

Josiah stepped forward, put his hand out.

“Mr. Conklin?”

The man stared at him.

“Can we help?”

Conklin blinked at him for a moment, then the old hatred came back, and he shook his head, then stalked off, his shotgun held high, the councilmen who were left following him.

Josiah suddenly felt very sorry for all of them.

More glass breaking. Three outlaws rode past the men, very fast, screaming and shooting off their guns. A large crowd heaved out of the saloon, and Nathan’s expression changed to one of horror.

“They’re headin’ for the jail!” he shouted Yanking out his gun, he ran down the boardwalk.

“Shit!” Buck hollered, and both he and Josiah followed Nathan through the darkness highlighted by random gunshots and the sound of breaking glass.

  
  


Vin had heard the shouting and the gunshots, knew what it meant. Gerald, however, was still merely curious, and went to the window, his hand on his chin.

“Now what the hell is all that?” he mused.

Vin went to the front of his cell, gripped the bars. “Mr. Townsend, you got a gun?”

“Hm?” Gerald looked around, shrugged. “Well, I probably do, somewhere around here...”

“You put mine in the corner, over there.” Vin pointed. “You’re welcome to it.”

“Oh,” Gerald waved his hand. “Whatever it is, I’m sure Conklin’s - ”

Just then the door burst open, and outlaws began pouring into the jail.

Gerald froze for a second, then shouted, “Hey! You’re not allowed in here!”

Three men shot at him.

Gerald fell against the wall, gasping as he gripped his chest. Vin cursed, backed against the rear wall of his cell, but there was nowhere for him to go.

The outlaws shoved around the desk, grabbed for the keys. Vin quickly pushed his cot in front of the cell door, hoping at least that might slow them down a little. And he prayed for a miracle, because he knew it would not slow them down by much.

One of the outlaws jammed the key in the cell lock, turned it with a loud click. As the cell door swung open someone fired a shot at him, which went wide. He ducked, winced as another one bit into his shoulder. Damn, he thought as the shouting and gunfire in the small office reached a fever pitch. Damn!

Another shot, but this one came from behind him. One of the outlaws gurgled, fell into the cell. Surprised, Vin looked behind him.

Buck was grinning at him, not two feet away. Josiah and Nathan were right behind him, and Vin saw the back door of the jailhouse was wide open.

Buck handed him a pistol through the bars. “Miss me?” he said lightly.

Vin just grunted, took the gun, and started firing.

The outlaws fell back as Buck, Nathan, and Josiah began firing on them. Vin made his way out of the cell, almost falling over the slain man in the doorway. He glanced over at Gerald, but even a cursory glance told him there was no hope.

More outlaws were pushing into the office, crazed looks glazing their drunken eyes. They shouted angrily when they saw the other gunfighters, and all three men ducked as bullets rained at them.

“Five hundred dollars!” one of the outlaws shouted. “Don’t let ‘em get away!”

“Come on!” Josiah hollered, and pulled Vin toward the back door of the jail, which was still hanging open. He winced as a bullet grazed his calf; another took his hat off.

Buck brought up the rear, aiming and firing carefully until they spilled into the alleyway.

Then Vin looked around and saw a dozen outlaws bearing down on them.

“God damn!” Buck yelled, and the four men took off running in the opposite direction, as fast as they could.

  
  


Mary tried to see what was going on, but she sighed in frustration as she looked out Nathan’s window.

“I can’t see a thing,” she said, looking over at Ezra and JD. Ezra was standing near the door, leaning on the iron footboard of Nathan’s bed, and JD was sitting up against a pile of pillows, one of his beloved Colt Lightnings settled tentatively in his right hand, the other still sitting in its holster, on the bedside table. He had come out of his daze, a little bit; his eyes glittered with an impatient fire, as if he’d be all right again, if he could just pretend he could still be a gunfighter.

Ezra stood up. “I’ll go outside to investigate. Mrs. Travis, you stay here, Mr. Dunne, if you will be so kind...”

JD sat up straighter and nodded somberly, and Mary smiled at the gambler’s blithe ignoring of JD’s injuries. She moved to where JD was sitting as Ezra opened the door and went outside.

Not a half-second later he was back in again, and Mary did not like the look on his face at all.

“Mrs. Travis,” Ezra said in a strangely breathless voice, keeping one hand on the doorknob, “please listen carefully. When I close this door, please put one of those chairs - ” he gestured with his gun to the chair by JD’s bedside, “under the door handle, and then conceal yourself underneath Mr. Jackson’s bed.”

Mary’s mouth dropped open.

The gambler glanced out the door, then turned his green eyes to JD. “Several outlaws are headed this way. Mr. Dunne, if I should fall, you must protect Mrs. Travis, is that clear?”

JD nodded automatically, and his hand tightened around his gun.

Ezra nodded to himself, then hurriedly closed the door.

Mary heard angry shouts outside, getting closer. She grasped the closest chair in her hands, felt the rough wood against her skin, and hefting it up, walked quickly to the door and jammed the chair under the knob, tilting it so it was braced against the floor.

She sighed, and turning looked at the small space underneath Nathan’s bed. Shaking her head and thanking God she had taken off her bustle after the attack, she moved close to the bed and dropped on her hands and knees. At least it didn’t look dusty under there.

Just before she scooted under the bed, Mary glanced up at JD. He was watching her, the gun cradled in his hand, the amber lamplight bathing his injured face. His eyes were determined, but a little frightened too, and far away. She gave him an awkward smile, which he returned. But his heart didn’t seem to be in it.

Footsteps, pounding up the stairs. A gun went off - Ezra’s.

JD aimed his gun at the door. “You’d better get under the bed, Mrs. Travis.”

With an inward groan, Mary slid on the wooden floor into the tiny, dark space, and watched the bottom of the door. And waited.

  
  


Josiah bit his lip against pain coursing up his wounded leg. They were running down the alley, and it seemed that every time he looked back, there were more outlaws chasing them.

“Make for the livery!” Vin hollered. “ We got to head for the hills!”

All four men knew that the livery was not far away, but it felt like it was on another continent. Buck turned, fired, saw one of their assailants go down. But there were still five pursuing them.

It was dark in the alley, dark and dangerously tight, but it worked to their advantage. Nathan and Buck fired, fired, fired, and the sound echoed and bounced off the narrow, confining walls.

And the livery was still a continent away.

  
  


Ezra cocked his gun and fired, the darkness filling with sound as another outlaw fell onto the balcony in front of him.

The gambler looked at the street and cursed; there seemed to be desperados everywhere, and he only had a limited supply of bullets. At least the walkway around the balcony was narrow; only one gunman could travel it at a time, and so far that had worked to his advantage. But Ezra knew his luck could not hold out forever...

A gunshot, by his ear. Ezra jumped, looked down at the ground, saw the gray smoke from an outlaw’s gun, shot at it and heard a distant groan. The sound of two more sets of heavy boots approached, and Ezra backed up to the door. He couldn’t let them get in. JD had a lot of courage, but in his condition he couldn’t hold off an attack for long, and then he and Mary Travis would probably both be killed...

Another outlaw came lumbering around the corner, slowed down by the bodies of the others that were now blocking the narrow passageway. Ezra shot at him, and he let out a noisy gargle and fell off the balcony to the street below. The outlaw behind him, a large dirty-looking man, staggered forward and aimed his gun at Ezra, who obligingly aimed back.

Click.

Both men stared at their guns for a second; Ezra’s was empty, and looking at the rusty specimen the other man held, he guessed that weapon had jammed. With an impatient roar, the outlaw tossed his gun aside and charged at the gambler, ramming him into the wall with a loud thud.

  
  


Mary gasped as she heard a muffled bump on the other side of the wall. There were yells on the other side of the door, loud curses and the sounds of two people struggling violently. She heard JD shifting in the bed above her. His eyes looked so scared, she remembered, as if he wasn’t sure he could protect her. There had been no time for reassurance, but she was sure he’d die to keep her safe. And hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She cringed a little further under the bed, trying not to listen to the town falling apart.

Another thud, the sound of a struggle. The room rang with the sound of something falling with the weight of two bodies against the door, once, twice -

And the chair fell away from the doorknob with a rattling bang.

  
  


The lone lamp that shone at the entrance to the livery was at last in view. Buck and Nathan covered Josiah and Vin as they all raced for that faraway star, and escape.

“Where’d all these men come from?” Buck hollered to Nathan as they traded volleys with the advancing desperados. There had been five before; now there were eight of them.

“Damned if I know!” Nathan gave the others a quick glance, then said, “Josiah and Vin are both wounded. You get back to my place, help Ezra. We’ll make a run for Hornet’s Rock, okay?”

Buck nodded, got off a few more shots. “I’ll cover you!”

Nathan blinked understanding, and all four men ran for the livery, the outlaws right behind.

  
  


Mary stared at the fallen chair for a moment, began to back herself out from under the bed.

“Stay there, Mrs. Travis,” She heard JD command above her head, and then she saw the mattress heave, and she knew that the youth was getting out of the bed.

“JD - ” Mary began, somewhat alarmed.

“Don’t move,” JD ordered as she saw his feet hit the floor. Gunshots outside, far away, more shouts. “It’s dangerous, just stay there.”

“But - ” Mary began, but didn’t finish.

Another banging noise on the door.

JD fell to the ground with a gasp, his good hand grasping the bedclothes to stop himself.

Mary gasped too, and covered her mouth.

The chair was upended across the room, about four feet from where JD was laying. Letting go of the bedclothes, he righted himself, and Mary saw that he’d tucked his gun into the bandages that bound his right arm to his side. His face glistening with exertion, JD began to crawl toward the chair, but his movements were awkward and uncoordinated, like a baby’s, and he mostly dragged himself by his good arm, slowly, so slowly. Outside, the struggle was getting louder, and Mary bit her lip and prayed.

  
  


Ezra threw a punch, and another one. His adversary reeled, but they were an even match. And his opponent wasn’t injured.

“Yew goddamn - ” The outlaw slurred, and once more charged Ezra into the wall.

The gambler grunted as he hit the wall, again. _I can’t let him get in there._ But his back was telling him he was running out of options. And ribs.

He shoved the ruffian away, cracked him across the jaw and moved to stand in front of the door, his fists raised. More footsteps, running up the stairs. Ezra knew he couldn’t take on two men, but he set his feet firmly apart in front of the wooden door. One last stand...

The outlaw charged him, and Ezra fell back against the door, felt it give a little too much and thought, _oh no_. With a desperate grunt he heaved his weight away from it.

  
  


JD gasped as his hand finally grabbed one of the chair legs, and he struggled with his good hand to right it while he lay on his back. His face was red with impatience and fear, and Mary heard him grunting loudly, more out of aggravation than pain. The weight of the top of the chair made it difficult to set upright with one hand, and it fell over once, twice. JD hoisted himself into a sitting position, and shoved at the chair, but the angle was wrong and the chair crashed over the other way, out of his reach.

Another loud thud. The door began to splinter inward.

“Oh, my God,” JD whispered, and moving in front of Mary he leaned his back against the footboard and drew his gun. He was trying not to, but Mary saw he was shaking.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Travis,” JD said, his youthful voice trembling with grief. “Jesus, I’m so sorry - “

Mary opened her mouth, heard a loud gunshot on the other side, and gasped.

The door crashed open. JD raised his gun with a loud yell.

A huge man slumped through the door, fell onto the floor dead, shot in the back of the head. JD gazed at it in horror, looked up to see Ezra standing over the man, gore finely splattered on his white shirt. But he didn’t look back at JD. He was looking behind him, at the slender man standing two feet away, staring at the back of the outlaw’s blown-out head in pasty-faced horror. JD saw him, but didn’t recognize him. Neither did Mary, who peered at him curiously as she slid cautiously from under the bed. But Ezra knew him, and his jaw hung open in shock.

It was Tims.

  
  


Buck flung the door of the livery wide, checked with his gun as Josiah, Nathan, and Vin thundered by on their horses. A couple of outlaws rounded the barn, guns blazing, but Buck cut them down quickly as his friends rode away through the rocky field that marked the edge of town, and into the surrounding hills.

Another outlaw appeared. Buck brought him down. No more came; that was the last of them.

“God damn,” Buck said to himself, and watched his friends ride off into the gathering darkness. Who knows if I’m ever gonna see ‘em again. Then he reloaded his pistol, cocked it, and ran as fast as he could for Nathan’s.

  
  


Ezra stood in the doorway of Nathan’s room, but after noting that Mary and JD were uninjured he turned his attention to Tims, who was hanging onto the railing and loudly retching into his handkerchief.

“Mr. Alderman,” Ezra said with a smile, straightening his bloodstained shirt. “When you have pulled yourself together, please accept my thanks for dispatching that villain. He nearly had me.”

Tims was shaking his head, almost as if he wasn’t listening to what Ezra was saying.

“I just couldn’t do it anymore,” he said, leaning forward and putting his hands on his knees.

“Do what?” Ezra asked, genuinely curious.

“At first it was just the hotel safe,” Tims babbled, “and I thought, why not, you know? Then Concho shows up and says we can do the jewelry store, and that sounded...but then it all went wrong, it just went - ”

“You robbed the jewelry store and the hotel safe, Mr. Alderman?” Ezra asked, incredulous.

Tims paused, then nodded. “Yes, I admit it. It was just - it got out of hand. It was bad enough when Durning told the sheriff all those lies about the tracker - ”

“Lies?” Ezra repeated cautiously.

Tims nodded. “Yes, Durning made it all up. I was there, I’ll tell them.”

Ezra blinked in amazement.

“That was bad enough,” Tims continued, still breathing in large gasps, and he glanced inside the room, where Mary was tending to JD. “But then that Domino showed up, and said he’d take care of her, and I didn’t go for it. But they wouldn’t listen to me.”

Ezra’s eyes narrowed in understanding. “So you came here.”

Tims nodded. “I didn’t know if you’d be here or not, or what would happen, but I knew I had to do something. Those outlaws, they wanted to kill the law, and I knew the one who was beat up would be...” His eyes fell on JD, who was still sitting against the footboard, and he stopped.

The boy was huddled on the floor, the old bloodstains still stark on his underdrawers. Ezra followed Tims’ gaze, and felt a rush of concern. JD didn’t look injured, but his good hand was grasping his hair, and what Ezra could see of his face looked flushed and upset. Mary was trying to talk to him, but it didn’t look like she was succeeding. But Ezra knew Tims wasn’t paying attention to that. He was looking at the bloodstains on JD’s longjohns, at the arm still bound to his side, at the dark bruise that still marred his fair features. We’re taking bets, Ezra heard in his mind. How long till the sheriff dies...

Tims stared at JD for a moment, a long moment, and Ezra thought he looked ashamed.

Ezra cleared his throat and asked, “Mr. Alderman, where are your friends now?”

“They, um.” Tims tore his gaze from JD’s beaten face and looked at Ezra. “They’re at the hotel, I think. All the stuff we’ve taken is there too, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know. None of us should get away with what we did.”

Ezra nodded. “And did I hear you say something about Concho? Would that be Concho Charles?”  
Tims nodded. “We worked out a deal with him, we’d help him steal things and he’d look out for us when he came to town.”

“And when is that?” Ezra asked.

“Tomorrow,” Tims answered, looking at Ezra and Mary in turn. “Tomorrow, at dawn, he’s coming with all his men. I know all about it.”

“Hm,” Ezra said thoughtfully, and tilted his head at the bandits still roaming the streets. “Perhaps there is a way we can make his welcome somewhat less than pleasant.” He turned his head back to Tims, and his look was stern. “I know how you must feel betraying your friends, Mr. Alderman, but to clear Mr. Tanner’s name and save this town you must do so. Are you ready?”

Tims pursed his lips, looked into Nathan’s room, at Ezra’s battered form, at the havoc in the streets. And nodded. “They’re not my friends. And the answer is yes.”

  
  


  
  



	12. Chapter 12

Buck trotted along the main street, his eyes darting back and forth as his boots crunched against splintered wood and broken glass. Damn. God damn.

The streets were quieter; the gang of outlaws had, he suspected, been partially diminished by the others, and some had gone back into the saloon once Vin was no longer a tempting target in the jail. There were some men still skulking in the streets, and Buck heard random sounds of gunfire and shouts in the distance, enough to make his stomach tighten. All around him were broken windows and overturned horse troughs; up ahead Buck saw a frame shop that had been broken into, it wares busted and scattered in the street. He thought of Mrs. Potter’s goods store, and thinking she might need some help turned his steps in that direction.

He turned the corner down her street, saw with relief that Mrs. Potter’s place looked all right. The street was dark, deserted. A hunched-over form was lurking in the shadows, but as soon as Buck casually brought his jacket back over his holster, the shadow took off.

_Keep runnin’. We’ll catch you someday._

His wonderings satisfied, Buck was just about to turn around and head for Nathan’s when he noticed a nearby store with a broken window, and he froze.

_Emmie’s notions store. Damn it._

The store was halfway down the block, but even at that distance Buck could hear someone rummaging around noisily inside. Whoever they are, Buck thought as he tiptoed closer and drew his gun, they ain’t professional. Poor Emmie, look at her stuff just thrown in the street. She’ll be devastated.

Buck got a little closer, cleared his throat to challenge whoever was pillaging inside. Before he got his mouth open, however, someone else stepped out of the shadows and leveled his shotgun at the door.

_Well, I’ll be. Conklin._

“You in there!” Conklin called out, in a pretty strong voice Buck thought. “Come on out. You’re under arrest.”

Buck hung back in the shadows and watched. The rummaging ceased. and Buck saw Conklin step into the open doorway. “It’s no use hiding in there. Come out now and you won’t get shot.”

Silence, then softer bumps and scrapings. The back way, Buck suddenly realized, and just at that moment Conklin glanced over and saw him.

Quickly, Buck put his finger to his lips and walked closer. He had no reason to help Conklin. The man was a bully and a coward, had caused JD a lot of unneeded grief and probably after tonight the town would kick him right out on his butt. But Buck wanted to get whoever was looting Emmie’s store, and he didn’t want to get shot by Conklin while doing it. Which left him with one choice.

Conklin waited until Buck was close enough to whisper to, then hissed, “What are you doing here?”

Buck noticed Conklin’s belligerent impatience was gone. It had been replaced by a weariness, an almost helpless tone. But he’d think on that later. “He’s goin’ out the back way, Mr. Conklin,” he said in a low voice.

“He is?” Conklin craned his neck to the back of the building, which was up a narrow alley.

Buck nodded, and waved his hand. “Come on. You can surprise him.”

Conklin nodded dumbly, and following Buck they treaded lightly up the alleyway, to the back door of Emmie’s shop.

It was almost pitch black there, only the light of an outdoor lantern three doors down gave them any light at all. Still, it was enough to see the door handle jimmy around, and both men heard the grunting of whoever was on the other side as they worked the lock open.

Conklin raised his shotgun. Buck kept his gun down, but cocked it just in case.

The door creaked open a little.

Conklin grabbed it, and flung it wide.

The man standing behind the door blinked in surprise, his startled face looming over an armful of stolen goods. He backed up a step, but Conklin jammed the shotgun closer, and Buck saw that his face was confused.

“Hey,” Conklin said, squinting into the shadows. “Aren’t you Anthony Durning?”  
The man’s eyes narrowed, and his face grew dark. But he seemed unable to move.

Conklin pointed his shotgun at Durning’s head. “Drop the goods.”

Durning looked at Conklin, then Buck.

Easy, Buck thought. Watch him, I don’t like his looks...

“Come on, drop ‘em,” Conklin said, then turned to Buck and muttered, “I don’t understand, he’s a businessman. He’s the one who saw that tracker shoot - ”

In that instant Durning dropped the clothes and reached for his belt. Conklin swung his head back, but didn’t see the gun in Durning’s hand until there was a white flash, and the fence behind him splintered with a loud crack.

Buck cursed, and aimed his gun, but Durning had already run back into the shop. To Buck’s surprise, Conklin cursed too, and ran back the way they came.

Durning burst out of the front door of Emmie’s shop just as Conklin and Buck rounded the corner. Durning paused, raised his gun and fired it. The shot went wide, and Buck and Conklin both pointed their guns at Durning’s head. The businessman froze.

“You’re under arrest,” Conklin said in an authoritative tone. “Drop your gun.”

Buck saw Durning smirk in the low light. “You can’t shoot me. I didn’t do anything.”

“You made a shambles out of Miss Emmie’s store,” Conklin pointed out.

“No, I didn’t,” Durning said confidently, spreading out the hand that wasn’t holding his gun. “I don’t have anything on me, see? I was just trying to find my way back to the hotel.”

“Through the back door?” Conklin asked unbelievingly. “With your arms full of goods? What kind of a fool do you take me for?”

Buck tilted his head. “I’ll tell you what kind, Mr. Conklin. The kind that don’t believe a wolf can hide in a business suit.”

Durning glared at him.

“But what if I told you I saw him break into Emmie’s store?” Buck asked in a threatening growl, his eyes riveted on Durning. “What if I told you I saw him plain as day. And maybe he shot some people too, murdered ‘em in cold blood. You’d believe me, wouldn’t you, Mr. Conklin? Cause I saw it.”

Durning was starting to look a little rattled. “Oh, come on!”

Conklin’s eyes narrowed at Durning;s discomfiture. “What else did he do?”

“Oh, let’s see.” Buck sighed. “Held up a bank. Stole some horses. Maybe you even made up some stories so’s you wouldn’t get caught. That about right, Mr. Durning?”

“No,” Durning shook his head, more rattled now. “No, I never did any of that. You’re lying!”

“Maybe,” Buck tilted his head as he looked at the thief over his gun. “Why not? Good enough for you, when you wanted to frame Vin. Wasn’t it?”

Durning opened his mouth, closed it again, then shook his head. “I didn’t frame him. He shot that man!”

But Conklin was shaking his head, his shotgun still aimed at Durning’s head. “And you shot at me. Were you trying to kill me, Mr. Durning?”

Durning took a step backward. Conklin leaned forward, a little, and at that instant Durning whipped up his gun and fired it at Conklin’s head.

Conklin ducked, and his hat flew into the street. Durning turned around and took off running, and Buck and Conklin both took aim and fired. Durning tumbled forward and yelled out, grabbing his leg.

Buck walked with Conklin up to Durning’s side. It was almost as dark in the street as it had been behind Emmie’s store, but even then they saw that Durning’s pockets had emptied as he fell. Watches, jewelry, money, and a small glittering array of loose gems lay strewn about the

thief as he lay cursing and grasping his bleeding leg.

Buck studied the stolen goods for a moment, then turned to Conklin, who seemed amazed.

“Mr. Conklin,” he said lightly, “I think you may want to review this gentleman’s statement. I have reason to believe he ain’t tellin’ you the truth.”

Conklin ground his jaw, glared at Durning, who glared back in sullen defeat.

“Oh, just to let you know,” Buck said as Conklin leaned over and picked up Durning’s gun, “bunch of outlaws tried to get your prisoner. Not to step on your authority none, but Josiah and Nathan rode him out of town for his own safety. He’ll be comin’ back.”

Conklin sighed, shook his head in a sad kind of wonder, but didn’t say anything.

“And - ” Buck waited until Conklin looked at him to add softly, “I’m real sorry, but your deputy got shot during the attempt. Don’t think he made it.”

Conklin stared at Buck, stunned for a moment, then his shoulders sagged. “Oh, Jesus Christ.” He glowered at Durning, gave him a nudge with his shoe and growled, “Get up.”

Durning started to stand. Conklin impatiently put out an arm and yanked him up the rest of the way.

Buck holstered his gun, took a step backward. Durning was growing increasingly cowed, whether from his wound or from the undeniable evidence of his crimes being so blatantly displayed, Buck couldn’t tell. But these kind of men were dangerous, and he regarded Conklin nervously as the older man began to lead Durning away.

After a few steps Conklin paused, and turned to Buck. His face was an open battlefield of conflict, anger, bewilderment and chagrin all mixed up together, and it was obvious that Conklin had no idea how to handle what had just happened. He’s too proud to apologize. Buck thought: But there was sorry in the older man’s eyes, and when Buck took Durning’s other arm to help Conklin take him to the jail, Conklin didn’t protest.

Well, it ain’t much, Buck thought as they walked down the dark and shadowed street. But it’s a start.

  
  


They rode, and rode, and rode out under the twilight sky. In the deepening night, Vin rode, felt the wind in his hair and the tearing pain in his shoulder, and all he could hear was the thunder of his horse’s hooves against the hard desert floor as he leaned over the animal’s neck, and rode.

They pounded on for what seemed like forever, until they finally slowed their horses down in the shadow of a large group of rocks a couple of miles outside of Four Corners. Hornet’s Rock.

Nathan trotted his horse over, slid down and walked over to where Josiah was wincing in the saddle.

“Either of you get shot anywhere else?” he asked as he helped the big man get down.

Vin eased himself off his horse, came over with the bridle dangling in his fingers and his hand clamped against his shoulder.

“I think I’m all right,” he said laconically, peering at Nathan in the dusky darkness.

Josiah leaned against the rocks, a dim outline to the other men. “Just got this ball in my leg. Reckon that’s enough.”

“Hm.” Nathan said. “Well, both of you set yourselves down and get comfortable. I’m gonna make us up a fire, and get you taken care of.”

Nathan walked off to the horses, and Vin and Josiah sat down in the cool dirt. There was silence for a few moments. Then Vin looked up, saw a flash in the distance, then soft thunder. He watched it, not moving, saw the lightning again. “Josiah?”

“Hm?” A rustling movement in the darkness.

“How’s Mrs. Travis?”

“Oh, she’s all right.” A grunt as Josiah sat up. “She was awful scared, but not too bad hurt. More riled than anything else.”

Vin heard a smile in that voice, and believed it. “And JD?”

“Last I saw, he was holdin’ his own.”

Vin’s hand went to his shoulder. “Hope he’s okay.”

“Ezra’s lookin’ after him,” Josiah said reassuringly. “And now Buck is too, and I’d just like to see somebody try to get past Buck to hurt JD. He’ll be all right.”

There was another pause, longer. Vin shook his head. “Sure has been a lifetime these past few days.”

“That it has.” Josiah agreed, gingerly rolling up his pants leg.

Another pause, long and quiet. Vin heard the gentle rustle of twigs and brush being set up for kindling, listened to it for a moment before saying, “Reckon we’ll all be goin’ our separate ways.”

A small sigh from Josiah. “If it’s meant to be that way.”

Vin looked in Josiah’s direction, even though the preacher was now only a dim outline against the darkening sky. “You thinkin’ it ain’t?”

There was another pause, and Vin could just barely make out Josiah leaning back against the cool rock, and tilting his head back to study the clouded sky before answering.

“I honestly don’t know, Vin,” he said quietly. “But there’s a lot of things need doin’ before we say our goodbyes, and I got the feelin’ what happened tonight was a second chance.”

“Or the last nail in our coffin,” Vin said wryly, feeling in his pocket for some jerky.

“They need us,” Josiah said in a quiet, firm voice. “Those scared, misguided people, they need us to keep ‘em from the dangers of this world, at least until some real, permanent law shows up. Conklin tried, but we know what happened with that. We aren’t pretty, but we do the job.”

Vin nodded agreement, found the jerky and pulled it out of his pocket. “Yeah, we scare the devils away, all right. Like a, a, what do you call it when you take a demon outta someone?”

A pause. Vin could almost feel Josiah looking at him. “An exorcism?”

“Yeah, that ’s it.” Vin tore off a piece of jerky, chewed on it thoughtfully for a minute before sighing, “I don’t think we got ‘em all, though. Gonna have some more exorcism come mornin’.”

“I think we can count on it,” Josiah commented, leaning back against the rock.

Vin looked at the scudding clouds overhead. “Wonder where Chris is at.”

“On his way back,” Josiah answered, crossing his arms. “If he knows what’s good for him.”

Vin shook his head. “Even if we go back and clear out those outlaws, gonna be a whole ‘nother problem when he shows up.”

“Mm-hmm.” Josiah agreed. There was a few moments silence, then Josiah said, “Vin, you been closer to Chris than most of us ‘cept Buck.”

Vin ducked his head down and look at his hands.

“You ain’t said much,” Josiah observed, his voice full of concern. “You handlin’ all this okay?”

Vin took another bite of jerky, chewed it. “We all got ghosts,” he said slowly, quietly, “And Chris, his are eatin’ at him something fierce. But he had no call to do what he did.”

He paused. There was the rumble of more thunder in the distance.

“Now I ain’t known Chris as long as Buck,” Vin continued, still in his soft, unhurried speech, “But I seen that inside that leather hide is a good man. Ain’t perfect, but worth knowin’. And until this, he ain’t done nothin’ I’d walk away from him for.”

Josiah waited a moment before asking quietly, “And now?”

Another sigh, long and regretful.

“I know what it’s like to have to live with things you done,” Vin said, “Chris comes back, he’s pretty much admitting he’s got to live with this the rest of his days. I can respect that in a man.”

Vin heard the sharp crack of flint and tinder. A few sparks, some yards distant.

“If he don’t come back...” Vin’s voice carried the same quiet lilt it always did, but he shifted his weight before saying, “If he don’t come back, he ain’t ready to face it yet. And I could understand that.”

The last rays of light were dying out now. Vin looked at his friend in the dimmest of light. “But I couldn’t respect it.”

The thunder rumbled closer, the clouds passed overhead.

The light was gone.

  
  


The light was gone...

Chris stared into the little fire he’d built in the stone fireplace, the only part of his home still standing. It was dark now; the last glimmer of light, filtered through thick storm clouds, had faded away. Chris had watched in fascination as the world got darker, inch by inch. He could see everything, then the outlying trees disappeared, then the shattered remains of the old barn. A few more minutes, and the darkness swallowed the corral and the windmill beyond it. Then, finally, there was nothing left but this tiny fire, the cold stones around it, and Chris, sitting in front of the half-demolished stone structure with his eyes glaring sullenly at the fire, at the charred timbers that spiked upward around, at nothing at all. Chris, alone and miserable. And drunk.

It had been hard, taking that first swallow. It had burned, seared his throat, and Chris almost threw it up, but didn’t. It hurt like hell, but it hurt less than remembering, less than being in this world he’d hated, that hated him, that he’d screwed up so badly. It hurt a little less. Then he took another swallow, and another, and soon it hurt a lot less.

And now...now it was like an old friend had come back, one he thought he’d never see again. It didn’t feel good to be drunk, but it felt familiar. _I don’t have any real friends left._ Chris wrapped his hand around the half-empty second bottle. _But I’ve got this._ _And when I don’t have this anymore..._

The gun was close, not in his hand but lying on the soot-covered planking nearby. Chris had been wavering all day about his decision. He knew he couldn’t go back, but didn’t know where to go if he didn’t. Back to Indiana? But there was nothing there, no family, no one who would be even accepting of him. Mexico, maybe. Maybe he could be a lawman again...

But no. Tears stung Chris’ eyes as he grasped the bottle and leaned the neck against his face. No, everything reminded him of what he’d done, what he’d ruined. The law reminded him of JD. Mexico made him think of Purgatorio, and Vin. There was nowhere he could go where the ghosts of what he’d done wouldn’t find him. Nowhere he could hide that the sight of JD, sitting dejected and broken in a wheelchair in some lonely room, wouldn’t haunt his soul. He didn’t deserve forgetfulness, or escape, and he knew it. He deserved to die.

But, a drink first. Chris held the bottle up in front of the dancing flames, watched the light refract through the liquid. He thought of the poker game they’d all been in on the week before, and his gut wrenched at the memory. _Oh, Jesus._ This time he didn’t try to stop the tears that welled in his eyes, Jesus, it’s gone. They’re all gone, I did what Fowler and his men and Wickes and the warden couldn’t do if they all tried together for a thousand years. I split us up.

Well - Chris took a swig out of the bottle, here’s to you, Vin. You tried, harder than you should have. Wanted to help you with Tascosa. Jesus, don’t get hung. Maybe you’ll find my body, God, I hope you don’t. But if there was anybody on earth I would trust to take that note in my pocket and do what it says, it’s you.

Chris took another swallow. Buck, I guess I let you down worst of all. You really wanted it to be like the old days, like nothing ever happened. Even right after Sarah died, you couldn’t stand it that I wasn’t moving on. I’m sorry, but sometimes you just can’t. You’ll probably hate me for the rest of your life, but at least I got one comfort: as long as you’re there, JD won’t be alone, and I know he’ll have somebody looking after him. You were always a good friend, Buck.

The whiskey swirled in the bottle for a moment before Chris took another drink, and thought of Nathan. God, Nathan, you had the hardest life out of any of us. People whipped you and used you and chained you up, but you didn’t resent it. I won’t ever understand that, but whenever one of us was hurt, there you were. Even if it was someone we didn’t know, you never asked questions or made conditions, you just wanted to help. You saved Buck’s life, rode with Vin after the Indian Chanu tried to kill him, stitched JD up. You helped us all out. If it weren’t for you, we’d all probably be dead. And you brought us together, but you probably don’t like to think on that. Guess we all owe you.

Ezra. Chris took another drink. Ezra, I don’t know you. You don’t want to be known, and I can understand how life can drill on a man till he wants to hide, but don’t stay in that place. You turn inward after a while, eat at yourself like an animal caught in a trap, and it kills you. Kills your soul. Slowly, if you’re strong. It’s a nightmare life, Ezra, but you don’t have to be the man I turned into, cut off and alone. You got friends, even if it don’t seem that way. I don’t know you, Ezra, but somebody should, sometime, just so there’s more to your death than a handful of dirt tossed into a grave. You got a second chance, Ezra. Take it.

There was a soft rumble in the distance, and Chris glanced up at the sky before taking another swallow. Josiah, I got to hand it to you. Probably nobody else in the town would have talked to me that night, a few would have shot me on sight, but you didn’t. I think - I don’t remember, but I think you tried to help me, tried to tell me it could be all right. But that was before you knew how bad JD was hurt, before the town turned on all of you. After everything we’ve been through, all the rottenness of humanity - after seeing the absolute worst in me, you still wanted to lend a hand. You said my demons were legion, and I know you wanted them to go away as badly as I did. Maybe you thought they could go away, but they didn’t. I’m sorry they won. I’m sorry they took the town away from you, and your church you were working so hard on. But there’s other towns that need you, that will listen and be kinder to you. And I know you’ll pray for me, not that it will do any good. But it’s a comfort, to know that someone’s making the effort.

One more left. One swallow in the bottle.

_JD._ Chris winced as the tears came. _Christ, JD..._

Don’t give up. I know I hurt you, I know you’re crippled, I know this world doesn’t offer much to you right now, but please don’t give up. You looked up to me, and I nearly killed you, and I can see your eyes now, they’re cold and hard and bitter, and that scares me so bad. We teased you about your starry-eyed worship, thought it was funny that you came all the way west just to be a gunfighter and follow your dreams. I tried to chase you off at first. Of course, that didn’t work, and you thought I was just brushing you aside, but that wasn’t it. Deep inside I was afraid for you, afraid because I knew that someday, somehow, those dreams would be taken from you. I knew that one day, you would realize that dreams can be useless, that there is nothing to strive for, that life is pain and suffering, and nothing happens after. I knew you’d find those things out someday, and I didn’t want to be around, because it hurt when it happened to me. It hurt so much, and all I had to do was look at you and I knew that when it happened to you, it would damn near kill you.

And now it has. And I’m responsible.

Find some hope, JD. Don’t fold in on yourself like I did after I lost Sarah and Adam. Don’t be like me. I know you always said you wanted to, but I’m empty inside. You don’t know, but it’s cold and dark where I am, and I’m afraid now you might follow me where I’m going, and there’s no hope here. I can leave everything else, but I can’t leave this world with the thought that in twenty years, you’re going to be sitting hollow-eyed in some dusty room and decide to blow your brains out because it hurts too much to go on. I need you to live, JD. If you do that, you’ll be a better man than I ever was.

One swallow left. Chris lifted the bottle. _For JD._ As the firelight glowed around the glass bottle, he tipped the container over and let the last of the whiskey run onto the floorboards, and out of sight.

  
  


Buck took the stairs up to Nathan’s two at a time, his heart pounding at the sight of the dead outlaws scattered on the cold earth around the alley. His sudden panic was relieved when he reached the wide balcony, and saw Ezra talking to some man he didn’t recognize. They were standing on the narrow stretch in front of Nathan’s door, which was slightly open, allowing a thin shaft of golden light to split the darkness of the walkway in two.

“Evenin’, boys,” Buck said, glancing around. “Everything all right here?”

Ezra glanced toward the door, and at that moment Buck realized that Mary was standing outside too, on the other side of the door in the shadows. He could hardly see her, but she had her arms crossed and Buck knew that meant something was bothering her, very much.

“Well,” Ezra said, looking back toward Buck. “None of us is injured, if that’s what you’re asking - ”

“You sure?” Buck gave an incredulous smile and nodded toward the cuts and red marks on Ezra’s face, and his eyes widened when he saw the bloody spots on his shirt. “You look like you caught the wrong end of a bull.”

“Oh - ” Ezra glanced down, brushed at the spots even though they’d long since dried. “These are courtesy of one of those miscreants, but Mr. Alderman here was of great assistance.”  
“Is that right?” Buck looked Tims up and down appraisingly.

“There’s more,” Ezra said mysteriously, and looked at Buck intently. “But right now there is another matter that requires your attention.”

Buck’s eyebrows went up, and he looked at Mary in concern. “There is?”

Mary beckoned him to the doorway. Frowning, Buck walked over. Mary put her hand on his arm just in front of the door, and when Buck’s eyes met hers he saw concern there, and a helplessness he wasn’t used to seeing in the steel-willed lady. She nodded toward the open doorway, and Buck looked. And understood.

The solitary lamp by JD’s bedside was turned down very low, so low it almost wasn’t burning anymore. By that dim light, Buck saw JD hunkered down in the bed, his knees drawn up, his battered face staring ahead at nothing. His face had a strange, knotted look to it, and he wore a brooding frown that seemed focused on some small world just in front of him, to the excusion of all else.

Buck took a step forward. JD didn’t move.

Mary kept her hand on Buck’s arm, drew him back. “He’s been like that since the gunfight,” she whispered. “He won’t talk to anybody. I was hoping maybe you...”

“What happened?” Buck asked tightly, his eyes riveted on the inexpressibly sad look on JD’s face.

Mary let out a regretful sigh. “He was trying to protect me, we had a chair braced against the door and it fell off. He tried to put it back, but...well, he still can’t...”

Buck’s breath went in ragged, and his eyes widened slightly as he nodded. “All right.”

Mary glanced from JD to Buck, from the lonely figure in the darkened room to the hardened gunslinger limned by a single shaft of struggling light. “Mr. Wilmington, if there’s - “

“No,” Buck said softly but urgently, waving Mary away. Ezra and Tims glanced over, and he shook his heads at them too. “Ezra, you get Mrs. Travis to the church and stay with her. She shouldn’t be outdoors on a night like this.”

Ezra nodded, his face soft and unusually vulnerable-looking in the dim light. He put one ruffled-sleeved hand out, and Mary gave Buck a final encouraging squeeze on the shoulder before she took it, and Ezra and Tims led her carefully down the stairs.

After they left, Buck stood there for a moment, staring into the room. JD’s head was down, he almost looked asleep, but Buck knew better. He’d seen it before, that half-crying face, the defeated slope of those bandaged shoulders, the dispirited air that seemed to permeate the room, to spill beyond it out into the darkness to engulf whatever it touched. He’d seen all of that before, and had hated it. And he hated it even more now.

_Dammit, Chris. I thought I was through with all this._

Then he quietly stepped inside.

  
  


JD didn’t look up when Buck entered, kept staring ahead in the low light, his huge hazel eyes staring at his knees in sullen obsession. Buck kept his silence, walked as quietly as he could to the side of the bed and sat down in the chair. Still JD didn’t move, seemed complelety oblivious, totally still except for the slight rise and fall of his chest and, every once in a while, a slow blink of his long-lashed eyelids.

Buckwinced when he saw JD up close. _God, he looks terrible._ The youth seemed to have aged ten years since the previous night; his skin looked drawn, tight, and there were circles under his eyes, which looked red and bleary. There was no color to his face at all, except for the dark maroon of the healing bruise and two small spots of color on his cheeks. His hair hang limp and unheeded in his eyes, half-hiding the incredible sorrow Buck saw there. His good hand sat unmoving in his lap, and every inch of him signalled depression and surrender as he sat slumped in the tiny light from the oil lamp, cut off from the world and struggling alone.

Buck wanted to speak, but was irrationally afraid that if he did JD might shatter, the boy looked so strained. So he sat, and waited.

After what seemed like an eternity, JD’s eyes moved, just a little bit, toward Buck. Buck gave a small smile, but they moved back to where they were.

“Leave me alone, Buck,” JD said quietly in thick, discouraged tones.

Buck shifted in his seat a little, tilted his head toward his young friend, but didn’t rise.

There was a long pause, then JD murmured, “I said, leave me alone.”

“Can’t do that,” Buck said gently, without making any sudden moves. “Wanted to talk to you about San Francisco.”

“I’m not going to San Francisco,” JD replied in the same choked voice, low and depressed. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

Buck brought his chin up, looked at JD. _Oh Christ, don’t do this._

The youth glanced at Buck again, then winced as he looked at his hand, the color in his cheeks rising. “I’m useless, Buck. You can go if you want, just - leave me here, okay?”

“No,” Buck answered in a soft voice, shaking his head and leaning toward JD. “No, it’s not okay, and I sure ain’t leavin’ you here.”

“Why?” JD asked in a slightly louder voice, and now his head came up and Buck was met with glaring, angry eyes. “Buck, what’s the difference? I’m crippled here or I’m crippled there. It doesn’t matter where I go.” His voice trailed off, and he went back to staring at his lap.

“Yeah, but there might be people who can help you in San Francisco,” Buck urged, praying that he could find some way through the shell of isolation that JD had thrown up around himself. “There’s doctors there, Nathan said so himself. They - ”

“They what?” JD suddenly asked, and when he looked up Buck saw tears in JD’s eyes. “What, they can show me a better way to use a wheelchair? Or a way to lie in bed so I don’t get sores? Or how about new ways to get into the outhouse, since I can’t walk in there anymore?”

Buck started back, alarmed by the acid self-hatred he saw in JD’s eyes.

“Or I’ve got some new ones for them,” JD snarled, the tears spilling over his lashes and drawing bright trails down both battered cheeks. “How about they show me how to pass the time when all I’ve got to do is stare at the walls all day? Or how to forget what it used to feel like when I went out riding? Or maybe - “ He took a great, hitching breath. “Maybe they can show me how I’m supposed to find a girl who don’t care that I’m a cripple, when there’s a million men out there that can walk just fine. Can they do that, Buck? Cause that’s what I need.”

Buck blinked at JD, astonished. The youth stared at him with huge, welling eyes, his face red with anguish as he cried, “I need to know why this happened to me, Buck. I need to know what I’m supposed to do now that I ain’t no use to anybody.”

Buck couldn’t take it anymore. “JD - ”

“I’m not!” JD yelled with a sob, bringing his hand up to rake it through his hair. “Mrs. Travis needed me to protect her, and I couldn’t. The chair fell off the door, and I couldn’t even crawl, Buck! It had to go back under the - the - and I couldn’t even get to it! She could have been killed, and I...I...”

“Now you just hush about that,” Buck suggested, moving a little closer. “Mrs. Travis don’t blame you for that. You’re still gettin’ better, it’s not your fault- ”

“No I’m not!” JD shouted hoarsely, making a fist and slamming it onto the bed fiercely. “I’m gonna stay this way forever, Buck, face it. And it is my fault, all of this is. If I’d just left Chris alone, none of this would have happened.”

Buck felt himself bristling at JD’s self-incrimination. “JD, there ain’t no way you asked for what happened to you. Chris was - ”

“He wanted to be left alone,” JD said firmly, wiping the tears from his eyes and shaking his head. “He just wanted me to leave him alone, and I wouldn’t. I didn’t, and now he’s gone, and we’re all split up, and the town’s in a mess, and Mrs. Travis got beat up, and it all started because I was too stupid to know when to mind my own damn business.”

“No, JD,” Buck said, and a weird feeling coursed through him, that he’d had this conversation before. Chris. After Sarah and Adam were killed, and before Chris ran off, that’s what they’d been arguing about. Chris had said, it’s my fault they’re dead, and Buck had argued with him. And Chris had broken his ribs. “No, son, you got it all wrong.”

But JD was folding inward again, shaking his head forlornly at the bedsheets, his eyes full of guilt and loss, his breath coming in heaving gasps.

“I don’t even know what I did,” JD said in a floundering way as his hand went back up to brush against his hair. “I must have made him mad, I mean I didn’t think that he would - I tried to get away, but he just kept grabbing me, and I just kept thinking - ” JD paused again, drew in a shaking breath, “Stop it, Chris. Stop it, it’s me. It’s me. But he didn’t stop.”

Buck saw the dazed look in JD’s eyes, could almost see the boy slipping back into that nightmare. Alarmed, he reached forward and pressed his hand on JD’s arm.

JD flinched away and bent forward, his good hand raking again and again through his hair as he spoke, and his voice sounded faint and far away. “He didn’t stop, Buck. I asked him to, why didn’t he hear me? I know he was drunk but he still should have known it was me. I mean, he - ” JD started rocking slowly, back and forth, and his voice became flat and stunned. “He hit me and he kicked me and I was screaming at him, but he just, just picked me up and threw me and I couldn’t stop him, I couldn’t stop him, Buck, and he was laughing, he was - he was laughing like he thought it was great and I wanted him to know it was me, but he just laughed and grabbed my shoulder and - he just - ”

Something happened at that moment, something inside JD where Buck couldn’t see it, but there was a moment where JD took in a huge breath and held it, just held it as if it were his last defense; then JD broke down and cried, four days of harrowing strain finally breaking through the infant walls of manliness he’d been so carefully erecting. They splintered like dry kindling, and JD bent his head into his good hand and wept as if his heart would break.

“Aw, shit,” Buck muttered, unsure for a moment what to do. His heart ached to see JD suffering so much, but dim memories of Chris’ reaction to any type of comfort held him back. For ten whole seconds.

Then he moved forward, carefully, and sat on the bed next to where JD was huddled, his slight frame wracked with grating sobs. Putting his arm around JD’s shoulder, Buck gently leaned him over, so JD was setting against his side. Then Buck rested his hand on JD’s good shoulder, lightly but definitely there, and waited for the tears to subside.

Unlike Chris, JD didn’t fight him, didn’t argue or shout or try to hit him. You ain’t got the strength, Buck thought sadly as he watched JD rail against the world. You poor kid, none of us could have handled all of this any better, and I’d have given the rest of my life if it had been me that got this instead of you. You go on and cry, kid, ain’t nothing unmanly about what you got to get rid of. Just let ol’ Buck be here for ya.

It seemed like an eternity, but eventually the sobs turned quieter, quieter, stopped. JD brought his head up in embarrassment as Buck took his arm away from the boys’ shoulder and eased his way back onto the chair.

“Sorry,” JD mumbled, and sniffed.

Buck scratched his moustache and eyed JD carefully. “Nothin’ to say sorry for, son. Got it all out?”

JD looked at the floor, and shrugged. “I don’t know. It just...it hurts, Buck. All of it hurts.”

“I know, kid,” Buck said sympathetically, leaning forward again and looking into those wounded hazel eyes.

JD’s eyes darted to the door, and a little fear crept into his eyes. “You won’t tell anybody I was cryin’?”

“Were you cryin’?” Buck asked with a conspiratorial smile. “Didn’t notice.”

JD smiled back, a little, then his shoulders slumped again and he shook his head. “I just don’t know what to do, Buck. It’s like everything’s been turned inside out.”

Buck tilted his head.

“I mean - ” JD looked at Buck with a kind of bewilderment. “I used to look up to Chris, but now...I don’t think I’m ever gonna be able to look at him the same way again. It’s like he’s this whole other person.”

Buck felt an old, familiar twinge in his stomach, thought of how he’d felt when he realized that the man that he’d been denying was capable of beating JD to a bloody pulp was, in fact, very capable of such an act. _You knew it for three years. You just didn’t want to admit it._

“And this whole thing with the town,” JD continued, raising his head and looking out the window at the darkness. “Even if they clear Vin’s name and we all get together again, it ain’t gonna be the same. I don’t think a lot of people want us here, Buck. So maybe we shouldn’t stay anyway.”

Buck looked at JD inquisitively. “You sayin’ you want to go to San Francisco?”

JD looked down and shrugged. After a pause he looked back up again and said, “I don’t want to go. But - don’t want to stay here neither. Not with things the way they are.”

Buck nodded. He knew exactly what his young friend meant.

“I guess - I don’t know what I want.” JD muttered, then coughed, wincing as his broken ribs bothered him. He stared at the floor for a few moments, then said, “Hey, Buck?”

Buck took a small breath. “Yeah?”

“Think Chris’ll come back?”

Buck sat a moment, and thought. “I hope he does, son. He’s got a lot to answer for.”

JD didn’t move for a moment, then said bleakly, “Wonder if he’s sorry.”

“Josiah said he was,” Buck commented, crossing his legs and trying not to think about the arrogance on Chris’ face that morning, his angry, denying words, who else’s fault is it, Buck?

JD’s eyes came up, to gaze at the wall. “I guess it don’t matter. Not to me, anyways.”

There was a quiet bitterness to those words, so softly said they might have come out of a dream. Buck looked at JD’s face, and while the tautness was gone, there was still a shadow there. Buck knew what he was seeing; the baby fat of innocence was gone from his young friend’s face, leaving only the harsh, brick-hard features of one who would never worship heroes again. JD’s heart had been broken, and even if he could jump out of bed and dance a jig right there, that wouldn’t change the emnity in his soul. Buck knew that was there forever.

And felt his own heart break also.

  
  


Chris felt his mind slipping, drifting backwards as he sat among the weed-choked remains of his home and cradled his hands around the neck of the unopened whiskey bottle. He was drunk, but he wanted to be drunker. The fire in front of him was blurry now, a brilliant dance of light and color that was almost hypnotic. Soon. Soon nothing will hurt anymore. Soon this will all be past.

Funny, how his life ended. Started out all right, typical young man, hot-headed and wanting adventure. Saw plenty of it, but it didn’t hurt him. Came out west, met Sarah, started a family, those were the best times. Him and Sarah and Buck, and then Adam came along. _Right here._ Chris looked around in the darkness. There was nothing left of the room he remembered so well, nothing but a few charred timbers that loomed around him in the firelight. Don’t look like much, but right here I knew laughter and love. Right here life meant something to me. Now I kind of wish it all hadn’t happened.

Would he have gotten so drunk that night, if he hadn’t been reminded of Sarah and Adam? What would he have done, if he hadn’t bumped into Buck that morning and decided to go out for a ride? Most likely he would have gotten that haircut, gone over to the saloon, maybe played some cards with Vin. Probably it would have been back to the saloon that night, but he’d have had maybe one bottle, then turned in. And the next day would have dawned just fine.

Chris closed his eyes, felt his stomach lurch as he bent his head over the bottle. The next day would have been just like any other, he’d have gotten up, gone out, maybe seen JD sitting bored in front of the jail. Hey Chris, he heard the youthful tones ring in his head, you goin’ somewhere? Want some company, it’s kind of dull around here. Hang on, I’ll get my hat...

Chris shook his head, stared at the fire, ignoring its searing brilliance. His eye fell to the gun, gleaming just out of arm’s reach. Not ready yet. But soon.

His life was over. He had thought it was over after Sarah and Adam died, then decided that while their killers went free, he couldn’t rest. His anger drove him, sometimes to the brink of madness, but Chris never minded. Then he met the others, found Buck again, and for a while - just for a while - he began to think maybe life didn’t have to stink.

Sometimes it did; Chris grimaced as his mind once more went back to his hellish incarceration, the sadistic Warden, the horrible, unjust cruelty that he’d been forced to witness while in that prison. But he’d talked to Josiah about it once, and Chris remembered that Josiah had pointed out that maybe Chris’ purpose for enduring that was to help people. You gave those men back some of their self-respect, Josiah had said. If it hadn’t been for you, maybe nobody would have ever known that some of those men were being falsely held. And that one man, inmate forty-six, you saved his life when the warden wanted to kill him. God does nothing randomly. You were meant to be there.

Chris grunted and gripped the bottle tighter, wondering at his own stupidity. At the time, what Josiah said had made sense, but now...it was all random, all of it, the good and the bad. JD was an okay kid, and now he was crippled for the rest of his life. Fowler was evil incarnate, and he got away with killing a woman and an innocent child for three years. And whoever hired him was still free, and in his depression Chris knew he’d never find him.

So it’s all random, Chris decided, setting down the bottle. Darcy was right, probably. If he didn’t go back the men would hate him, but so what? If he did go back, they’d hate him. Or maybe they wouldn’t, maybe they’d forgive him someday, but again, so what? They’d all drift apart eventually, or maybe they’d all get killed doing some stupid brave deed. Then people would talk about their courage and gallantry - maybe - for a week. Then it would be forgotten forever. And everything that was wrong with the world would still go on, and on, and on.

Oh, what the hell. Chris glanced with red eyes at the gun at his feet. Just do it now and get it over with.

Chris set the bottle to the side, leaned forward to grab the gun. At that moment he saw someone moving toward him in the shadows, just behind the fireplace. His body registered alarm, but too slowly for Chris to do much else besides make a sloppy lunge for the gun, which he missed the first time, but the second time caught in scrabbling fingers. He blinked blearily and sat up, almost falling over.

Then the figure walked closer, and his fear turned to anger. It was Darcy Thomas.

Chris lurched to his feet, kicking over the whiskey bottle as he stood. “What the hell are you doing here?” he growled in disbelieving fury. The son of a bitch had followed him.

Darcy walked calmly around to the steps, slowly came up them to stand on the charred floorboards with Chris. He stared at him, but didn’t say anything.

“God dammit,” Chris seethed, the alcohol bringing his temper to the surface at lightning speed, “You saw my note. You heard what that sheriff said. Get to Four Corners and leave me the hell alone.”

He turned around with a slight stagger, his eyes searching for the whiskey bottle he’d knocked over. Behind him he heard Darcy say quietly, “I’ll not go to Four Corners without you, Chris Larabee.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Chris spat, whirling at Darcy and stabbing him with a vicious glare, “Can’t you take a fucking hint?” He lifted up the gun, brought it down to puncuate his words. “I - can’t - go - back.”

Darcy just looked at him, glowing red and orange in the light of the fire.

Chris sneered at him as he wavered on the floorboards. “So you can forget your Irish words of wisdom and your ‘everything’s gonna be all right’, because it won’t. Not for me, not for JD, not for anybody. You got my ring, and you know what I want. Just leave me alone. I got things to do here.”

Darcy held his hand up, and glittering there Chris saw his wedding ring. Darcy shook his head. “I can’t let you do this, Chris. I’ve been down your roads, even this one. I can’t force you to go, but I can beg you to reconsider.”

Chris cocked his head, looked at Darcy as though he were insane. “You don’t let up, do you? I don’t **want** to be saved. What I done there ain’t no comin’ back from.”

“Yes, there is,” Darcy argued gently, lowering his hand. “It isn’t easy. But it can be done.”

“No, it can’t,” Chris replied miserably, his eyes on the fire, thinking of another time, another fire. “Things happen in a man’s life he can’t get over, no matter how hard he tries. I can’t help JD, but I can make sure it don’t happen to nobody else.”

“By killin’ yerself?” Darcy nodded toward the gun. “You already know what I think of that route.”

“Yeah, I know.” Chris swaggered around, hoisted the gun. “I just don’t care anymore. Now get out of here, mister, or so help me, I’ll make you sorry you stayed.”

Darcy’s eyes glittered. “Ye want to fight me, do ye?”

“I want you to get lost,” Chris grumbled, then kicked something, heard a familiar glassy thud. The whiskey bottle.

Darcy set his feet firmly on the floorboards. “Well, I won’t. Ye’re out of yer head with drink and fear, so it looks like it’s up to me to make sure the memories of yer wife and son don’t die here with ye. I’m doin’ this for them ye know, and for Reddie and Kate. Just so’s ye know, me mind’s made up.”

Chris’ breath started coming in heaving gulps, and when he wrapped his hand around the neck of the whiskey bottle he suddenly brought it up and flung it at the fireplace, shattering the bottle with a loud crash and causing the fire to flare up as the alcohol dripped into the flames.

“Damn it!” Chris shouted in drunken rage, his tortured face lit to glowing brilliance by the growing flames. “Will you stop wasting time on me and get the hell out of here! You can’t save me! I’ve been dead for three fucking years! There’s nothing left to save in me! Can’t you get that through your thick skull?”

Darcy took a step closer, until he was only a foot away, his face a flickering mask of anguish. “My skull isn’t half as thick as yers. But I’m at least twice as stubborn.”

Chris gave Darcy a forceful shove, leaned forward and shouted, “God damn you! For the last fucking time, leave - me - ALONE!”

Darcy straightened himself up, squared his broad shoulders. And shook his head.

There was a hair’s - breadth pause, then with a loud roar, Chris charged into Darcy and knocked them both off the foundation, and together they sailed into the cold dirt below.

Darcy grunted as he slammed into the earth, struggling against Chris, who had him by the throat. Chris sat up, reared back one fist and bashed Darcy across the jaw.

Darcy shook his head, then smiled. “All right, me bucko. I think it’s time we got down to business.” With that, he grabbed Chris’ shirt and flung him off. Chris rolled over, and came to his feet with a feral growl.

“Ah, ye do have some fight left in ye,” Darcy commented as the two men crouched at each other. “I kind of thought so.”

“You bastard,” Chris hissed, and swung at Darcy with all his strength.

Darcy ducked the blow, socked Chris in the gut. Chris doubled over, backed up and cracked Darcy with his right fist, then backed up a step.

“Ye call that a swing?” Darcy taunted. “Come now, if I was one of those demons ye live with ye wouldn’t be so kind. Come on, when ye struck yer friend ye weren’t thinkin’ it was him! Were ye?”

Chris let out a drunken howl and bashed Darcy with a left hook that set the Irishman spinning. Still growling, Chris grabbed his shoulder and threw him to the ground, and flung himself at him.

Darcy caught Chris by the collar, tossed him onto his back and sprang to his feet.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s yer anger, Chris Larabee, that’s what’s makin’ ye give up. Yer enemies, they’re still inside ye, and they’re the ones sayin’ there’s nothin’ in there to save. But I know different.”

Chris staggered to his feet and swung again, jabbing Darcy in the stomach, but Darcy grabbed his arm and swung him around onto the ground. Snarling, Chris jumped back up and circled Darcy, both fists raised.

The Irishman followed suit, shaking his head as he dabbed at some blood on his mouth. “It’s not you I’m fightin’, is it, Chris? Who is it?”

“Go to hell!” Chris cried, swinging at Darcy with all his strength.

Darcy ducked, kept talking, his words low and fierce, his face a kaliedoscopic blaze against the nearby fire. “One of the men who killed yer family? That’s who I’m seein’ when I look in yer eyes. They’re usin’ ye, Chris, like they used me. They’re the ones who want ye dead - ”

“Shut up!” A two-fisted swing caught Darcy in the jaw, and he stumbled over.

He stood back up, shook his head to clear it, and still glaring at Chris cried, “Fight it, man! Fight the bastards that used yer body to beat up that young man! Ye’re stronger than they are, ye know ye are! Fight it, Chris Larabee, ye stupid stubborn son of a bitch!”

Chris rushed Darcy then, threw him to the ground and pummelled on him, yelling until his voice was hoarse. Darcy fended off the blows with only a little difficulty, then swung up his leg and caught Chris in the side, flinging him off and getting to his feet.

Chris jumped to his feet as well, and for a moment they stood and stared at each other, the only sound their hoarse, rasping breathing and the crackle of the fire some yards distant.

Chris’ face was bloodied, his hair hung unchecked in his eyes. He glared at Darcy like a wild man and gasped in a rough voice, “I can’t go back. You don’t understand.”

Darcy’s fists hovered in front of his face. “Is that what ye think? Ye think I wasn’t such a man, years ago? Ye think I didn’t leave folks in Ireland who wonder to this day where I’ve gone?”

Chris’ fists came down a little bit. Then back up. “Doesn’t matter. This is different.”

“Aye, it is.” Darcy’s eyes were still dangerous. “I can’t go back. But I’ll be damned if I let you make the same mistakes I did, and suffer as I have because of them.”

The fists dropped a little further, but Chris was resolutely shaking his head. “I can’t mend the mistakes I made, you know that. Jail term won’t make JD walk again.”

“That’s true,” Darcy admitted, still keeping his hands up as well. “But it’s not yer Yankee pride we’re talkin’ about. We’re fightin’ over yer soul here, Chris Larabee. The one you keep sayin’ isn’t worth the time of day. But it is. It is, I know.”

Chris jabbed forward, but not all the way, and Darcy easily stepped backwards and avoided it. Chris paused, stared at Darcy in angry frustration for a moment. Then, slowly, his hands came down and he sighed, and slumped in exhaustion to the ground. “How do you know?”

“How do I know?” Darcy repeated in mild surprise, slouching down next to Chris in the firelit darkness. “I hear the stories, everywhere I go. Do ye not know what they’re sayin’ about ye in the small towns, in the taverns and the hills? Chris Larabee’s a hero, they say.”

Chris shook his head, stared at the ground. “Those are just stories.”

“But they’re true. How ye saved a group of lasses from a pimp who was usin’ them ill. How ye risked yer own life to bring an escaped felon to justice. How ye rescued a host of men from a wrongful imprisonment.”

“My men did all that,” Chris muttered, running one hand through his blond hair.

“Well, aye, but who led them? Who did they look to? Those people need yer strength, Chris, they need yer drive and yer sharp mind. And don’t ye think they’re aware that ye have mountains to climb? Probably they’re settin’ somewhere right now, wonderin’ if they’ll ever see ye again.”

“They hate me.” Chris said with certainty, feeling his gut wrench.

But Darcy was shaking his head. “They hate yer anger. They hate yer demons. If ye came back without them, and showed all the people there what ye were willin’ to do to make up for losin’ yer self-control, they’ll dance in the streets for ye, Chris. They will, I swear it.”

Chris seemed to consider this, then his shoulders slumped, and he shook his head dejectedly. “You might be right, but...I’ll never be able to look JD in the face again. He’s lost the rest of his life because of me. I’m still not sure I could face that.”

Darcy gave a small smile and said softly, “This Mr. Dunne is special to ye, is he?”

Chris thought about, gave a small nod. “He had a lot of spirit. Spirit I lost a long time ago.”

Darcy sighed, brushed off his clothes. “After I left Ireland, I travelled around Europe for three years. They have ideas there, ways of taking care of people with Mr. Dunne’s problem. I learned quite a bit, from visiting the spas and hospitals over there. Some people learned to get along quite well, even walked again.”

Chris’ eyes darted to him, surprised and hopeful. “Are you saying you can help him?”

Darcy cocked his head. “Well, it depends on his injury, and how much he wants to get better, but I’ll do my best. I was plannin’ on tellin’ you this last night, but ye kind of took off on me. ”

Chris felt suddenly numb. My God. He can help JD. Maybe he doesn’t have to be crippled forever. Maybe he’ll walk, and ride, and be happy. Maybe he won’t turn into me. He’ll have hope, a future.

Chris seemed in a daze, got up to his knees and gazed at Darcy earnestly. “Mr. Thomas, if you can help JD you can hogtie me to your horse if you want.”

“Ah, well, that won’t be necessary I’m sure,” Darcy said lightly, standing up and straightening his jacket. “Besides, if that sheriff is correct about the town bein’ overrun, I’ll be wantin’ ye to have both yer hands free. We may have to shoot our way in.”

Chris stood up too, and suddenly his mind was racing. They’d have to ride hard to reach Four Corners by sunrise, but...the town was probably being overrun, and if the townspeople had run the others out, they’d need all the help they could get. Mary was probably right in the middle of it...

“All right.” Chris said quietly, tentatively, his stomach feeling unaccountably queasy. God, this was hard, harder than most anything he’d ever done, probably he’d get spit on, but...but the only way Darcy was going to get into Four Corners alive was if Chris made sure he got there. And then maybe, just maybe, Darcy knew something that would help JD walk again. For that, Chris decided anything he went through was worth it.

Anything.

“All right,” Chris said, louder and more sure. He looked at Darcy, his face serious and set and determined. “We’re wasting time here. Let’s go.”

Darcy’s smile was gentle and happy, and as they walked toward the house to put out the fire in the fireplace he put a hand on Chris’ shoulder and said, “Ah, Mr. Larabee. Now yer young friend will see what a hero truly is.”

  
  


The torches were burning brightly among the delapidated shacks, their amber light glimmering off the high canyons walls that hid the location of Concho Charles’ hideout. Men were scrambling everywhere, cursing, shouting, carrying loads and readying their weapons.

And in the middle of it, Concho Charles stood and smiled.

A young blond man came up to him, eagerness written across his hardened face. “When do we move out?”

Concho chuckled, lit the cheroot he’d just taken out of a silver cigar case. “Patience, Billings. Four Corners isn’t going anywhere, and we have plenty of time.”

Billings glanced around, shaking his shaggy head. “Can’t believe they just rolled over like that. Thought they’d put up more of a fight.”

“Ah, well.” Concho sighed and blew out the match, tossed it away. “I must admit this is less of a challenge than I thought it would be, but still, we’ll have our center of operations back and that’s what’s important. Besides, as I hear it not all of the law is gone, so at least there’ll be some sport.”

“There’s still law in the town?” Billings asked nervously, his red-rimmed eyes popping. “What - ”

“Oh, calm down.” Concho took a drag, blew it out liesurely. “A crippled boy and a slow-witted darkie. Nothing to worry about, I’ll take care of them as soon as we get into town.”

Billings nodded, but didn’t look entirely convinced. Just then, a voice echoed down the canyon, a voice that was caught and carried by someone closer, then closer yet, and finally someone stationed at the mouth of the opening yelled, “Torres is coming!”

“Ah!” Concho took another puff, smiled in satisfaction. “Torres is back. Let’s see what kind of disrepair our quarry is in, eh?”

Billings nodded dumbly, trotted at Concho’s heels as the outlaw wandered a little closer to the canyon opening. Moments later, Torres rode in, his horse lathered, and looking upset.

“What’s the matter?” Concho asked immediately.

Torres swung himself off the saddle, his head shaking ominously. “Big trouble. Domino got himself killed.”

“Oh,” Concho said, unruffled. “Well, that’s his problem. What else?”

“Bunch of the boys got riled up,” Torres explained breathlessly, still holding the reins of his horse. “Went over to the jail and tried to get the tracker out.”

“Oh, no.” Concho’s face fell, then hardened into angry lines. “Have I taught them nothing? They couldn’t wait until sunrise?”

“Guess not,” Billings muttered.

Concho sighed in disgust. “Then what happened?”

“They broke into the jail,” Torres replied. “Shot the deputy, but Tanner got away. Couple of his friends busted him out, headed out of town.”

“Hm,” Concho said, puffing on his cheroot. “Hm. What was the place like when you left?”

Torres shrugged. “Some of our boys were still goin’ around bustin’ things. I got ‘em in line, shot the ones that didn’t listen.”

“Did you get the sheriff?” Concho asked casually.

Torres thought a moment, shook his head. “But he’s more’n likely dead now anyway.”

“True,” Concho admitted. “All right, Torres, this is a setback, but hardly a catastrophe. That tracker and his friends are probably somewhere close to the town, so I want you to take a dozen men and finish them off. Are there any of those hired guns left?”

“Uh - ” Torres made a mental check. “The one with the moustache, and the fancy gambler. And the kid that got beat up.”

“Oh. Well, we’ll simply make their deaths a priority, won’t we? After you take care of the tracker, get yourself into the town and dispatch them. Start with the child, he’s hardly even a moving target.”

“Got it,” Torres said, and led his horse away to carry out Concho’s wishes.

Concho turned around, his eyes darting about furiously. “Damn. If that fool Domino messes this up for me, I’ll personally go down to Hell and kick his sorry ass.”

Billings turned his head to see Torres walking away, then turned back to Concho. “Are we still going back?”

“Oh, of course!” Concho snapped. “But now their guard will be up. Fortunately, these people are rabbits, but if the gunslingers get protective we may lose some of our capital.” Concho took one more puff on his cheroot, then flung it away and began to walk away.

“So what does that mean?” Billings asked nervously, running after his leader.

“It means,” Concho growled, “That those gunslingers had better be taken care of by the time we get there, or I’ll send Torres to keep Domino company.”

With that, he stalked away, and Billings watched him go as the sounds of readiment continued unchecked around him.

  
  



	13. Chapter 13

Four Corners was quiet.

Buck sighed and scratched his head as he leaned out over the railing outside Nathan’s room and gazed out into the street. The outlaws were likely all passed out, or headed off into the hills. The saloon looked dark; Buck smiled a little as he pictured Billy, the bartender, sweeping up all of the broken glass from the crowd that had been in there all day. If he’d bitched about Chris’ little mess, Buck could just imagine how he was complaining now...

The clouds were breaking up, and there was a half-moon out. All up and down the darkened street Buck could see the results of the evening’s riot. The glass from countless broken windows glittered in the street, and splintered wood and scattered goods lay here and there in abject piles in the dusty street, and on the boardwalks. Buck shook his head. At least the glassblower would come out of this all right.

But it hadn’t had to happen. None of it had, and that was what vexed Buck. He glanced back behind him, to where JD was sleeping, finally a calm, restful sleep after four days of nightmares and anxious pain. Buck’s gaze turned once more to the street. Jesus, Chris, how are we gonna get out of this? I’ll take the boy to San Francisco, but it ain’t what he wants. He wants to ride again, and walk, but more than that he wants us all to be together again, and I just don’t see how we can work that out. You were his hero, Chris, and now he don’t have one, and I got a feeling JD is the kind of kid that needs somebody to look up to. I can get him to Frisco, I can see about gettin’ his body back in order. But I can’t do nothin’ about his heart. I’m afraid that’s broke for good, and even when JD gets better he won’t be the same JD he was before this all started. I reckon that simple-hearted gusto he always had won’t be there no more. He’s just like us now.

And I don’t know about you, Chris. But I’m sure gonna miss the old JD.

But no. Buck suddenly realized that there was some part of him that didn’t buy what he was saying. It was incredible, but something told him things hadn’t played out yet. Buck shook his head; usually he tried to be optimistic, but this time he argued with himself. How could things possibly be all right after this? After what Chris did, after what had happened with the town, how could he possibly think that things were going to improve?

But it was there. Silent, almost unnoticed beneath the fatigue and the sorrow and the turmoil of the past few days. In a corner of his heart, right where he left it.

Hope. Maybe the last piece of hope Buck had, but it was still there. And maybe it was only by two fingers, but Buck found himself clinging to that hope as if he was over a great cliff. And he didn’t want to let go.

So he didn’t. And decided to suppose that things just hadn’t played out yet.

Quiet footsteps came up the stairs, and Buck turned his head to see Ezra walking toward him in the moonlight, his jacket pulled over the bloodstains on his shirt, the scratches and bruises from that day’s events still evident on his face.

“How’s Mrs. Travis?” Buck asked as Ezra drew close.

“Sleeping,” Ezra answered in a whisper, leaning next to Buck on the railing. “Mr. Alderman is keeping his eye out. He’s not practiced, but he’s a damn good shot.”

Buck nodded, satisfied.

“In fact, “ Ezra continued, “I’m downright optimistic about Mr. Alderman. I sent him over earlier to the jail and told him to repeat what he told me about his associates, and Concho Charles. I figured Conklin would listen to him before he’d listen to me.”

“What about Concho Charles?” Buck asked, suddenly concerned.

“Well,” Ezra sighed. “According to Mr. Alderman, that desperado will be paying us a visit come morning. And bringing some friends. I don’t know what Conklin intends to do about it, since he fired us, but I thought he ought to know about it anyway. And he has information that will clear Mr. Tanner’s name in this affair. That nightmare may be over, at least.”

“Thank God.” Buck said softly.

Ezra cast a concerned eye over his shoulder. “What is Mr. Dunne’s condition? He seems to be resting comfortably.”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine,” Buck said, and his words were half-hope, half-fatigue. He drew one hand over his eyes and said, “He’s just got a lot to work through. Just like the rest of us.”

“Hm.” Ezra nodded, let his gaze travel over the street. “Do you suppose Mr. Tanner and the others have found refuge?”

“Well, if anybody knows them hills, it’s Vin.” Buck said, straightening up and stretching. “I reckon they’ll wait till morning, then head on back.”

There was the sound of more footsteps, and Buck and Ezra looked at each other. Quietly, they both drew their pistols and aimed them slowly at the approaching stranger.

Then the stranger appeared, and it was Conklin.

“Oh, shit,” Buck whispered, putting up his gun quickly.

Amazingly, Conklin didn’t shout out or even scowl at them. Instead, he just shook his head and said quietly, “Do you people do that automatically, or do you have to think about it first?”

“Our apologies, Mr. Conklin,” Ezra said as he holstered his weapon. “The streets are none too friendly this evening.”

“Yes, well...” Conklin took a few steps forward, not too close, and then stopped, staring at the floorboards.

He stood there for what seemed to be a long time, and finally Buck glanced at Ezra curiously, then said softly, “Uh, Mr. Conklin? You want something?”

“Uh, no. Uh, yes,” Conklin stammered, bringing his head up. His face was twisted with uncertainty. “I’m sorry, I’m no good at these things. It’s just - you’re all such wild people, you got no city breeding at all, and I figured - ” He stopped, sighed and scratched the back of his head.

Ezra looked at Buck, confusion all over his face.

Conklin sighed and started over, his voice firmer and stronger. “I’ve changed my mind. You men don’t have to go.”

Buck stood up from the railing. Ezra’s face was placid, but Buck saw the surprise in his eyes.

“In fact, I - ” Conklin didn’t look at them, kept his eyes on the floor. “I sent Matthew Dwight out to find Tanner, and...and ask...for his help.”

The last words were said so low that Buck wasn’t sure he’d heard Conklin correctly. He leaned forward and asked, “ ’Scuse me?”

“I need your help!” Conklin snapped, then backed off, his hands wandering in and out of his jacket pockets as he spoke. “I - was wrong about Tanner, that Durning fellow was lying about the whole thing. And I got back to the jail, and Townsend was dead.”

Buck dipped his head. “I know. Outlaws got him.”

Conklin nodded, sighing sadly. “I’m...willing to admit that I might have...overstepped my bounds. You men might be...uncivilized, but the criminals are more scared of you than they are of me. I got all this on my head now, and I figure the only way we’re going to keep this town from collapsing completely is if you...step back in.”

There was none of Conklin’s bluster, none of that arrogant bravado in those words; only the defeated, tired tones of an old man who had tried to do what he thought was the right thing, and failed. Buck and Ezra looked at each other, the same thing in both their glances, and Ezra looked at Conklin and said, “We’ll do our best for you, sir. Just like the judge asked us to.”

Conklin didn’t say anything, merely nodded. After a moment, he put his hands back in his pockets and said, “Well, I...I guess I’d better get back to the jail, I just thought...oh.” He pulled something out of his pocket, gave it to Buck. “This is for Mr. Dunne, when he wakes up.”

Buck felt the cold metal in his hand, looked down. The sheriff’s star.

“Probably means more to him anyway,” Conklin said, and without another word turned around and left the balcony. Buck and Ezra heard his footsteps as they echoed down the wooden stairway.

“Huh,” Buck said as he looked at the sheriff’s star, turned it over in his hands. _Hope._ “Huh. Conklin said he was sorry. Don’t that beat all.”

“It certainly does, Mr. Wilmington,” Ezra said with a small grin, the moonlight glinting off his gold tooth as he leaned over the railing and stared out into the quiet street. “It most certainly does.”

  
  


Vin stared at the fire and tried to ignore the shooting pain in his shoulder. _What time is it?_ He glanced around wearily. Josiah was asleep, his bandaged leg stretched out in front of him and his rifle laid over it. Nearby, Nathan was dozing against a nearby rock, his head nodding in gentle rhythm to his deep breathing.

Vin sighed and looked up at the sky. Here and there stars poked through the clouds. If a storm had been coming, it had passed them by. Thank God for small favors. Vin put his head down and winced as his shoulder bit him.

_Wonder how they’re doing back in town._ Vin turned his head to gaze back at direction they’d come. When they’d left, it had seemed like there were bandits everywhere, and only Conklin, Buck, and Ezra to fend them off. And Ezra wasn’t in the best of shape.

I should go back. Vin considered, but then thought again. His hurt shoulder would make firing a rifle difficult, and more than likely Conklin would throw him back in the jail. Unless something had changed...

At that moment, Vin heard hoofbeats approaching from the town, and tensed. Glancing at the others, he rolled over and eased the rifle off Josiah’s lap. He stood up, slowly, and aimed his gun at the shadowy figure he could just make out in the starlight.

“Hey!” a voice announced that Vin didn’t recognize. “It’s me, Matthew Dwight. From the town.”

Vin put up his gun, stepped out from behind the rock. “Sorry, Mr. Dwight. Can’t be too careful.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dwight glanced around, then swung himself off his horse.

The others were stirring as Vin leaned back and put his hands on his belt. “Somethin’ happen?”

“Conklin sent me to find you,” Dwight said, and as he approached the men saw that he was carrying Vin’s sawed-off Winchester. “He was afraid you men would be gone by now.”

Nathan and Josiah got up groggily. Vin glanced at them, then turned his eyes back to Dwight. “I’m listenin’.”

“First off,” Dwight said with a smile as he handed over the gun, “you’re not being charged anymore. Turns out Conklin caught the witness looting a store, and then somebody else came forward and said they made up the whole thing.”

Vin allowed himself a small smile, and took the rifle.

“Second - ,” Dwight started, but before he could continue Vin suddenly turned his head and put his hand up.

Everyone tensed, and Josiah said, “What is it?”

“Horses,” Vin answered tersely, scanning the darkness and listening. After a pause he said, “’bout a dozen of ‘em, headed this way.”

“Oh - maybe it’s the judge,” Dwight said hopefully.

Vin’s face was dark as he shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He took one step, two, toward his rifle.

A shot rang out, splintering into the rock behind them, and they all dove for cover.

  
  


“You got ‘em?” the scruffy-looking outlaw said in a low voice to Torres as they neared the rocky area, marked off by its tiny fire.

“Just about,” Torres replied, aiming his pistol again.

Suddenly the fire went out.

“Aw, damn it,” Torres growled, drawing his horse up.

His compatriot looked up. “There’s a half-moon out. We can see good enough.”

Torres nodded, the threat of Concho’s anger hanging over him, and spurred his horse forward.

  
  


Vin ran behind the rock, his hand grasped firmly around his sawed-off Winchester rifle. Dwight, Josiah, and Nathan were crouched next to him, peering around the smoke into the darkness. An instant later, they were surrounded.

The darkness made aiming difficult, but in the moonlight Vin counted a dozen men and horses, all armed and looking for a fight. Priming his gun, he aimed and fired, once, and bit his lip as his shoulder burst with agony. One man fell, but the others continued to ride, shouting crazily and shooting holes in the rocks as they fired their guns.

“Keep movin’!” Vin commanded, gasping against the pain. “They can’t see us too good neither.”

The others nodded, squeezing off shots and maneuvering as best they could around the large, towering rock. The night air was puncuated by the ringing sound and bright flash of ricocheting steel, and Vin saw to his satisfaction that a few of the horses were riderless, and galloping away. A few, but not enough.

Vin glanced over at Dwight, noticed that he could see the whites of the man’s eyes as he stared in bewilderment around him. But he was firing, and loading, so Vin decided he could hold his own.

Someone bumped into him, and Vin turned his head to see Nathan reloading his gun.

“This don’t look good,” the healer remarked as he lifted his pistol and aimed it, just before ducking a shot. “You okay?”

“I’ll live. Maybe,” Vin responded dryly, priming his gun and squeezing off another shot at the circling riders. A horse went down, and the rider spilled out onto the desert. The other horses ran over him heedlessly, and Vin winced.

“Keep it going, boys,” Vin commanded, struggling to rise over the hurt in his shoulder, and rising up, shot his gun again and ran to the other side of the rock.

A bullet glanced off the rock, sending a short burst of sparks over Vin’s head. Even with a half-moon, it was impossible to see faces clear enough to try to pick out a leader, but Vin knew that one of them had to be. _Damn! My shoulder’s on fire._ Don’t think on it, Tanner. You got work to do.

A bullet whizzed by his ear, and Vin flinched. He looked up, fired, but had a sinking feeling that they were through. Five riders had been killed, but seven remained, and he could feel himself slipping, the pain in his shoulder encompassing his mind, turning the night landscape around him red. He slumped backwards and looked over, saw Josiah limping along, and Nathan, and Dwight. Dammit Tanner, they’re your responsibility now. Don’t you even think of passing out on them. Don’t you -

\- even -

Vin blinked, shook his head, and let out a low growl. God dammit, he wasn’t going to let these bastards win. He lifted his Winchester, fired off a shot, and the pain made him cry out but he channeled it, thought of Chris and fired, of JD and fired, of Ezra and Mary and fired, each time crying out with the pain and the anguish and every awful thing he’d felt since the whole nightmare had started. And it helped, helped him manage the pain, but even then Vin knew it wasn’t enough because he heard more riders coming, and he knew that they were finished.

No, you can’t give up, his mind shrieked as the redness returned, you let them go and you know where they’ll go next, into the town, they’ll get JD, and Buck and Ezra, they’ll get Mary and burn the place to the ground and you’re their last defense, even if you gotta stand alone against a legion of them you still gotta stand because you know it’s right. You’re all they have -

Vin stood up, shakily, and aimed his gun, thought for a hazy, pain-induced moment that Chris was right there next to him, knew that that would be right. Chris wouldn’t have backed down either.

Vin fired, felt the pain in his shoulder explode, and fell backwards.

The sound of approaching riders came closer, and Vin struggled back to his feet. Last stand, make it count - Vin willed his eyes to focus -

And blinked, amazed.

The horsemen were scattering. No, that wasn’t possible, but...Vin blinked slower, shook his head in amazement, saw them turning and firing at someone, then riding away panicked confusion. Vin heard what sounded like a thousand guns go off, and the riders all fell, dead or wounded. Only one remained, took aim and fired, and in response Vin heard another score of guns go off, and the rider fell into the dirt, dead.

Silence. Deafening silence, and Vin could hear his own heart beating like an anvil in his ears.

Oh, God. Everyone okay? He looked over, and through a filmy curtain he saw Nathan and Josiah smiling at somebody, Dwight was holding his arm but he looked all right, and then Vin collapsed against the rock and began to slide downward, finally letting the pain overwhelm him. He closed his eyes. Over...

Someone grabbed his arms gently, stopped his descent. Puzzled, Vin opened his eyes and struggled to focus.

Blurry. A little less so. More distinct. An older man, gentle features, aristocratic even in western attire. “Judge Travis?”

“That’s right, son.” Travis said softly, and in the darkness Vin thought he saw soldiers behind the judge, hundreds it looked like. But they were so indistinct...

“Aw, shit.” Vin moaned, and closed his eyes again. Just before the dreams claimed him, he heard Travis saying in a voice full of authority and wonder, “Now would someone kindly tell me just what the hell is going on here?”

  
  


*****************************************

Nathan’s room was dark when Buck walked up the wooden stairs and quietly approached the door.

That wasn’t a surprise; when Buck told Ezra he was going to go around again, make sure everybody knew about Concho’s attack and see if there was any way they could help out, he knew that the gambler would probably turn out the light and try to catch some sleep. And he didn’t blame him a bit.

But Buck was surprised when he gently pushed the door open. Ezra wasn’t huddled in one of the chairs, or stretched out to doze on the floor. Instead, he was sitting on the low table in front of the window that fronted the main street, staring out into firelit dimness as his elegant hands idly shuffled his deck of playing cards. He hadn’t even noticed Buck’s entrance, and for a second Buck stared at the gambler. Ezra was barely traced into the darkness by the outside light, his face absorbed with thought and melancholy. Then Buck felt like he was intruding, and deliberately made a noise with his boot to alert Ezra to his presence.

With a small start, Ezra looked over and blinked at Buck, then turned his head as Buck approached and continued his thoughtful gazing. “So,” he asked in a quiet whisper. “Have the good citizens been warned?”

Buck nodded, glancing over at JD as he neared the window. He could just barely see the youth, who was once again curled over on his right side, one hand half-clutching the blanket at his throat. His black hair was mostly hiding his face, but not the stitches that Buck had grown used to seeing, or the fading bruise. But still, at least the kid looked like he was getting some decent sleep.

“I went over to the jail,” Buck said softly as he joined Ezra at the darkened window. “Told Conklin he should think about puttin’ the townfolk somewhere safe, like the church basement. When Concho gets here I have a feelin’ we’re all gonna feel like prayin’ anyways.”

“Amen,” Ezra said humorlessly, his eyes still locked on the street.

Buck glanced at him in curiosity, eyed the vacant street before them, trying to see what his friend found so fascinating. It was a pretty good view. From Nathan’s window, one could see down the length of the main street, from the whitewashed church Josiah had been working so hard to restore, all the way down the street to a large building set at an angle sent the avenue off to the right. On a regular day, the window would be a good place to sit and watch Four Corners go by. Tonight, the streets below were littered with glass and wood, deserted. Haunted, almost.

Buck sniffed, glanced again at Ezra. “Thought you’d be sleepin’.”

The gambler looked at him, his light green eyes shielded as they usually were, but still he dropped them quickly to his hands as he shook his head. “Too many apprehensions to lie easy tonight, I’m afraid.”

Buck noticed the anxious tone in Ezra’s voice, cocked his head. “Like what?”

Ezra glanced behind him, as if to make sure that JD was still asleep, then faced Buck with a serious expression. “My friend, we must face facts. Concho Charles will be here at first light with a mass of men determined to overtake this town. The citizenry here are ill-equipped to truly defend themselves, and our numbers have - well, they’ve dwindled. And if we assume the worst, if we assume that Mr. Tanner and the others did not survive their escape, then you and I are all that’s left.”

Buck took in a deep breath. “I see what you mean, Ezra. That’s damn depressing.”

Ezra was shaking his head. “There’s more. Even if you and I are the only hope this town has, we cannot fool ourselves into thinking we would be able to even slow Concho down. We cannot run, so our only choice is to face his men and die like gentlemen in the certain resulting hail of gunfire. And if that is what must happen, then that is what I intend to do.”

Buck’s expression changed to one of confusion. “What about me?”

Ezra cocked his eyebrow at Buck, shook his head. “I cannot allow you to make that stand with me, Mr. Wilmington. You have responsibilities.” Ezra glanced at the sleeping youth huddled in the patchwork quilt behind them. “If you and I both fall, Mr. Dunne will most assuredly be next, because he will be the last, excluding Mr. Larabee whom I doubt we shall ever see again. So you see, Mr. Wilmington, you cannot die because you are Mr. Dunne’s last hope, and he is the last hope of us all.”

Buck felt a chill go through him then, stared at the solemn, set face of the man standing opposite him. He opened his mouth to argue. Dammit, Ezra, don’t you go all noble on me and set yourself out there to die. I ain’t never run from a fight in my life, and I sure as hell ain’t gonna start now. We’re part of the group; we die, we die together.

But Buck didn’t say those things, because he knew in a way that wrenched his gut that Ezra was right. They were outnumbered to the point of lunacy; if they went out together, they would both be cut down before they could draw their guns. And then that Concho bastard would just laugh, trample over them, run on up the wooden steps to Nathan’s and -

Buck’s eyes darted to JD, still lying asleep in the bed, and he shivered. No, he couldn’t let that happen. Not if there was any way on earth to prevent it.

So, Ezra was right. Damn him.

Ezra smiled gently, nodded his head out the window. “It may be, Mr. Wilmington, that you were wondering what I was ruminating on, when you entered just now. Do you know what irony is?”

Buck thought a moment, shook his head.

Ezra let out a small sigh. “Irony is a situation in which something occurs which is the opposite of what one might expect, given the circumstances. And I was just thinking of the first time I made the acquaintance of you gentlemen, in that saloon - ” he indicated with a nod of his head the darkened saloon down the street, “Six months ago, when all I cared about was making money and moving on. If you had told me then that I could function in a group of seven individuals, I would have laughed in your face.”

“As I recall,” Buck said, his voice low, “that’s exactly what you did.”

Ezra glanced at him, smiled a little. “I never in my wildest dreams thought any person could mean more to me than gain. I was more surprised than any of you at the depths of my...” Ezra paused, looked down at his cards, then back onto the street. “For a short time, I would like to imagine that we accomplished something here, Mr. Wilmington. As you said so eloquently earlier, we were always strongest when we acted together. So it is a bitter irony to me that now, when the dawn comes, I alone must venture into that street and die, or disgrace myself forever.”

Buck shifted, uncomfortable at the mental image that presented.

“But if that must be so,” Ezra said quietly, his eyes once again going down to where his hands shuffled the cards, endlessly arranging and rearranging them between his fingers, “all I ask is that you notify my mother, ship me in a halfway decent coffin - ” His eyes flicked to Buck’s, deadly earnestness telegraphing from those pale depths. “And get Mr. Dunne to San Francisco as soon as you possibly can.”

Buck nodded, didn’t want to talk about the possibility of all of them being dead by morning. He also knew that there was no way Ezra would have been sharing this with him if the gambler were not utterly convinced that he would be dead the next day. So Buck swallowed, looked out the window, and said nothing. And waited for the dawn.

  
  


Conklin sat at the sheriff’s desk, ran one tired hand over his eyes. He tried to concentrate, tried to think about what he could do to stop what he knew was coming, but all he could think about was that awful bloodstain on the wall just behind him.

Gerald’s blood. Gerald’s lifeblood.

Conklin shook his head, scowled at himself. He’d never really liked Gerald, the man wasn’t what you’d call a friend, but still...still, Conklin knew he’d messed up, badly, and as a result Gerald was dead, the town was shot to pieces, and now a huge gang was coming and there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

Not that he wasn’t trying. Several council members were right now going from door to door, telling the citizens about the danger and offering the chance to take shelter in the church’s basement. After the way he’d botched things up, Conklin was surprised that he wasn’t being stoned, but apparently anyone who had a semblance of authority was being taken seriously tonight, which really rankled Conklin because he knew he didn’t deserve it.

So, when they’d all huddled together in the sheriff’s office after the panic was over, it was Conklin they asked, so what do we do now? Then that gambler had brought the businessman over, and he’d told them all about Concho and what his plans were, and now the council was trying its best to stem a townwide panic. But what good would it do? With no protection, no way to stop them, he was just delaying the inevitable. Concho and his men would take over the town. Dozens of innocent people would likely die, including him. There really wasn’t any way to stop it. Since the judge wasn’t coming...

Dammit, Conklin. You really messed things up.

“Hey!” a loud voice barked from the rear cell.

Conklin looked up, irritated. It was that businessman, Durning, again. “What?”

“I’m hungry,” Durning groused, sauntering to the bars and gripping them. “Don’t you guys ever feed your prisoners?”

Conklin sighed hugely, went back to his plans. “You’ll eat in the morning.”

“We’ll all be dead in the morning,” Durning said sarcastically. “It’s your fault I’m in here, dammit! I want some food.”

Conklin slammed his pen down. “Mr. Durning, it is not my fault you decided to run with the likes of Concho Charles. Now shut up and stop bothering me!”

Durning shot Conklin a nasty look, went and slumped down in his cot. After a moment he asked, “Hey, where’s Sherson and Childers? They were in on this too, you know.”

“I know.” Conklin’s eyes stayed on his paper. “They’re rounding them up, don’t worry. Your friends are better at hiding than you are.”

Durning snorted and shook his head in disgust.

The door opened, and Conklin looked up. It was one of the council members, a younger man named Pender, and he looked a little shaken up. “Mr. Conklin - ”

Conklin furrowed his brow. “What is it, Pender?”

The younger man looked out in the street, then back. “You’d better come - ”

Conklin stood, felt his blood go cold as he reached for his gun. “What is it? More outlaws?”

Pender shook his head. “No, sir - soldiers! Dozens of ‘em!”

Conklin froze. “Federal soldiers?”

Pender nodded, his eyes wide with amazement as he added, “And the judge!”

  
  


Buck was looking down at his hands, thinking about how much he was hating his life at the moment, when he felt Ezra grip his arm and gasp. Looking up at the gambler quickly, Buck saw the naked astonishment in Ezra’s eyes and turned his gaze out the window.

And gaped.

The first thing he saw was Vin - the tracker’s light coat made him easy to pick out, plus he was riding out front, Josiah and Nathan on either side of him. Was that blood on his coat? Something dark...he was shaking it off, but Buck saw Nathan putting a hand on Vin’s shoulder occasionally, for support.

But they were alive. All three of them, alive. Thank God.

Then Buck’s gaze went to Josiah’s left, and he saw the man riding next to the preacher. It was dark, and Buck couldn’t see all that well, but damned if he wouldn’t have known that shoulders-back, head-up, don’t-mess-with-me attitude a mile away.

Orin Travis. The judge was here.

But behind him - behind the judge was what was making both Buck and Ezra stare open-mouthed in surprise. Soldiers, blue-clad Federal soldiers, at least a hundred, cavalry and infantry, marching behind the judge as if they were on parade. Buck’s skin tingled, and he thought of the war, the last time he saw that many men marching in formation that way. _My God. We might have a chance after all._

The judge is here. We got us a legion of soldiers.

As Buck and Ezra watched, the entourage pulled up to the jailhouse, and they saw Conklin walk uncertainly out of the jail to meet them.

  
  


Orin Travis gave Conklin an even stare as the old man tentatively approached his horse.

“Mr. Conklin,” Orin said in iron tones, then waited.

Conklin fiddled with his tie, didn’t meet the judge’s eyes, cleared his throat before talking. “Judge Travis.”

There was another pause, then Orin looked to where Josiah and Nathan were helping Vin from his horse. “I understand that up until recently you were the self-appointed law in this town.”

Conklin cleared his throat again, nodded.

Orin pressed his lips together briefly, then said, “Well? What do you think of the job?”

Conklin brought his head up then, gave Orin a look of sheer capitulation. “I - well, I...”

He glanced over to his right. Vin was on the ground, standing with his back to Conklin and shaking off the helping hands of his friends. He turned a little, and Conklin saw the determination in the tracker’s eyes as his face caught the street fire’s glow.

Conklin sighed, shook his head and looked Orin in the eye. “To tell you the truth, Judge, I don’t think it agrees with me.”

Orin gave the older man a curt nod. “Good. Then you won’t argue with me if I step in.”

Conklin shook his head vigorously. “I’d really rather you did.”

As Orin swung himself off his horse, Nathan put a firm hand on Vin’s shoulder and said, “Come on, let’s get you both looked at.”

Josiah nodded assent, and together he and Nathan began to lead Vin and their horses away.

Orin straightened his jacket, shot his steel eyes in their direction. “Gentlemen, just a moment.”

The three men paused, turned back toward the judge.

Orin turned to one of the soldiers behind him, a tall man wearing officer’s bars, and said, “Captain, take your men to get something to eat and then meet me in the basement of that white church over there. If what I’m told is true, we have until sunrise to formulate a plan to save this town, so I suggest you all put your thinking caps on.”

The captain nodded. “Yes, sir.” and he attended to the soldiers massed behind him.

Orin paused, noticed the small knots of townspeople drawn out to see this amazing spectacle, soldiers and their bristling weapons in the dusty streets of Four Corners. He turned to Conklin with a scowl.

“These people look mighty scared, Mr. Conklin. Anybody get hurt? Mary?”  
Conklin shook his head. “Mrs. Travis is fine. Some stores got broke into. We got some of the men that did it, but...” He broke off, stared down at the wooden boardwalk, ashamed.

Orin eyed Conklin appraisingly, checked his watch. “Mr. Conklin, in troubled times it’s very easy to let your passions direct your judgment. I’m going to assume you’ve learned from all this.”

Conklin nodded, kept his eyes down.

“Good.” Orin said with a hint of a smile, and patted Conklin on the shoulder. “I can trust a man who learns from his mistakes. You and Mr. Dwight are in charge till I get back.”

Conklin raised his head then, surprise and something like relief on his face, and it stayed there even after Orin left him, and walked toward the three gunslingers who stood in the shadows.

Vin gave Orin a quietly appreciative gaze. “Sure am glad you’re here, judge.”

Orin nodded a little, then his eyes went to Nathan, and they were full of concern as he asked softly, “How’s JD?”

Nathan glanced toward his room, then back again. “He was doing better, last I knew. We can see if he’s awake.”

“Is he walking?” Orin asked quickly.

Nathan bit his lip, shook his head no.

Orin sighed, his voice somber and compassionate.“Mary told me, when she wired me, what happened. ” He looked up, met their eyes but Vin’s especially, and his gaze was hardest stone. “Want you boys to know, when Chris comes back he’ll be damned if he gets any leniency from me.”

Vin met the gaze, shook his head slightly as he said, “If the Chris we want comes back, he won’t be askin’ for any.”

Orin held their gaze for a moment, then shifted his eyes down the street and waved his hand. “Well, let’s get you fellas tended to. When morning comes, I’m going to need every hand I can get.”

  
  


As soon as Buck saw that his friends were heading their way, he hurried over to the bed and carefully knelt down in front of JD, who was still asleep. Ezra walked around him, quickly hunting some matches down, and as Buck heard drawers being opened and closed he leaned a little closer and said, “Hey, JD? JD.”

The flare of a match stick being struck, and amber light gleamed on JD’s face as the long black eyelashes fluttered, opened sleepily, squinted against even that low light. “Hm? What?”

“The judge is here, son,” Buck said, quietly but in a happy voice, and he felt better than he had in a while, at that. “He’s comin’ over here. You wanna see him?”

JD’s eyes widened, and he struggled to sit up in the bed, his black hair flopping into his eyes. “Judge Travis?”

“Uh huh.” Buck stood quickly, arranging the pillows so JD could rest his back against them. “And Vin and them are with him.”

The youth turned over, grimacing as his efforts to comb his hair with his fingers proved a total failure. “Is everybody all right?”

Buck nodded and said, “Looks to be.”

As he spoke, Ezra turned up the lamp. The room grew brighter, and Buck tried not to wince as he once again saw those bruises, the healing cuts, the neat row of black stitches that edged out of JD’s hair. But then he noticed something - JD was tugging at his nightshirt, smoothing his hair, all with an expression of anticipation that had completely replaced the morose gloom Buck had seen him in earlier. Heroes. Maybe JD still had at least one. At least one, and as Judge Orin Travis was in town, JD would be distracted from his hurts, maybe he’d even get better a little faster. Buck felt his heart lighten a little. Maybe things would be okay for JD, after all.

The boy looked supremely self-conscious, and as he sat up muttered, “Hope the judge ain’t mad at me. He gave me the town to look after and it’s just gone all to hell.”

“Well, we ain’t gonna worry about that just now,” Buck responded, helping JD sit up.

“Leave me alone, Buck!” JD snapped irritably, shaking himself out of Buck’s grasp. “I ain’t a baby.”

Buck backed away, both hands up and a smile on his face. That was a little of the old JD. “Sorry, son. Just trying to lend a hand is all.”

“Bad enough I gotta see the judge lying around in bed,” JD groused, half to himself, as he wrenched his body around and slapped at the pillows.

Buck frowned a bit, put his hands in his jacket pockets. As JD huffed back against the pillows, he glared at the gunslinger and saw Buck’s face change a little as he said, “Oh, shit, son, I almost forgot.”

JD scowled at Buck’s words, then watched as Buck pulled something out of his pocket and held it up.

JD’s eyebrows shot up in amazement. “My sheriff’s star? How’d you get it from Conklin?”

“He gave it to me,” Buck said happily as he leaned forward to pin it on JD’s nightshirt. “Said it belonged to - ”

“No, wait a minute, Buck.” JD said suddenly, pulling back from Buck’s attempts to fasten the pin.

Buck blinked.

JD winced, looked up at Buck with reluctant eyes and shook his head. “I ain’t ready to have it back on yet. Not till I can do the job again.”

Buck straightened up, a little surprised. “Oh. OK, JD.”

“But I’ll hold onto it,” JD said quickly, holding his good hand out.

Buck obligingly dropped the tin star into JD’s hand, and the youth tightened his scratched fingers around it and smiled a little.

“Thanks, Buck,” JD said, grasping the tiny piece of metal as if it were a gold medallion. He paused, and said in a soft, hopeful voice, “I’ll - I’ll put it back on when we get back from San Francisco.”

Buck heard footsteps coming to the door, nodded at Ezra, then looked back at JD with a small smile.

“You do that, son. That sounds like a fine plan to me.”

JD set the star on the nightstand, and turned his eyes to the door. Look at his eyes, Buck thought for a moment before looking away from JD, that’s the way he used to look at Chris. Heroes.

He’s still got one left.

Then the door opened, and all three men turned silent.

  
  


The first man through the door was not the judge, but Nathan, and Buck and Ezra both came forward when they saw that he was supporting Vin on his shoulder. The bounty hunter looked irked, but wasn’t fighting Nathan’s help too much as the healer led him to the chair by JD’s bed.

“God, Vin!” JD gaped, staring at the dried blood on Vin’s jacket. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, kid,” Vin said in his usual low, gravelly voice as he sat down, hard. He looked at JD, looked again. “You doin’ better?”

JD shrugged, looked down at the bedsheets.

“Get out of that jacket, now,” Nathan commanded, walking around the bed to his medical kit as Josiah and Orin entered.

“Josiah?” JD asked in mild alarm when he saw that the preacher was limping. “You too?”

“Only a scratch, son,” Josiah said reassuringly as he thunked himself down on the table next to the front window. He let out a loud sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath, and grimaced.

“Only a scratch,” Nathan said sarcastically as he gently began to pull Vin’s jacket away from his hurt arm. “With these two, an arrow through the neck is only a scratch. Josiah, you get yourself ready over there, I’ll be fixin’ you up in a minute.”

Buck smiled, crossed his arms. “I know that tone. I’d just like see you argue with that, Josiah.”

Josiah smiled back, winced as he brought his foot up to remove his boot. “No, thanks.”

JD then noticed Judge Travis, standing at the foot of the bed and looking at him. Nodding a little, JD squared his shoulders and said, “Sir.”

“JD.” Travis nodded back. “How are you doing, son?”

“Fine,” JD said automatically, then stammered for a moment and looked at his good hand. “I’m - I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here.”

“Not at all,” Travis said diplomatically, looking around the room, “Been meanin’ to come back around, take a look at things. Pretty good timing, I’d say.”

“Amen to that,” Josiah said softly as he eased his boot off.

Travis looked at him for a moment, then began to walk slowly around the foot of the bed. “Yes, now about those outlaws. Mr. Dwight tells me we’re expecting more of ‘em, around sunup?”

Ezra nodded, and Buck echoed his movement.

“Hm.” Orin put his hands in his pockets, continued to pace. “Well, it’s a good thing I came prepared. I’m going to post men in every alley, empty store, and back street in this town, and when dawn comes we’ll see to it that once Concho Charles rides into Four Corners, he won’t be riding out again.”

Vin grunted as Nathan laid his shoulder bare. The healer handed him a bottle of whiskey and reached for his tools as the tracker said, “We’ll stay out of the way if you want, judge.”

Orin’s eyebrows went up, and he walked once again to the foot of the bed, bathed in the amber rays of the oil lamp. “No, you gentlemen misunderstand me. This town may be blind, but don’t think this old man hasn’t seen what you men have had to put up with, defending this town. It’s a thankless, dirty job, but you’ve all done it, when lesser men would have shaken the dust off long ago. And for that, I’m mighty grateful.”

Orin paused, and the men looked at each other, mildly embarrassed by the praise. Orin cleared his throat and continued. “After tonight, I don’t think there’s a soul in this town that doesn’t know that you are all men of character and courage. And don’t think for a minute that just because I have a hundred soldiers at my disposal that I can do without a single one of you. No, I’m going to need you in the morning, right out where the people can see you, and know that because of you, this town is safe.”

Buck felt a twinge of pride, nodded his head and spoke for them all. “We’ll be there, sir.”

Ezra laughed softly and shook his head. “Lord help us all.”

Vin took a swig of whiskey, nodded as well, although he was gritting his teeth.

“Oh, now don’t you start,” Nathan chided as he cleaned Vin’s wound. “You got a banged-up shoulder, and you lost some blood.”

Vin eyed Nathan steadily, then smiled a little. “They didn’t hurt me. Just got me mad, is all.”

Nathan shook his head, knew he was losing. Had lost already.

Vin caught the other mens’ eyes over Nathan’s head, and winked as he took another swig of whiskey. The men laughed a little, looking at each other in a conspiratorial way, and for a few warm moments a familiarity hung in the air, a rich feeling of camaraderie they had all missed, and there was a long pause, as if each man had just realized what was coming back, and was savoring it, didn’t want it to go away. Just like old times.

Almost.

Orin was leaning back, his hands still in his pockets, when the door opened again and Mary appeared. She saw Orin, and her tired face lit up with relief and joy.

“Oh - ” she gasped, and rushed in to give her father-in-law a warm embrace. “Oh, Orin, thank God you’re here!”

“Mary,” Orin said fondly, patting her on the back as he hugged her. “They told me you were sleeping.”

Mary shook her head as she drew back. “The noises in the street woke me up. Oh, Orin, it’s been the most awful - I’ve tried everything I can think of, but...”

Orin nodded. “I know, Mary, you’ve held down the fort as best you could. Stephen would have been proud of you.”

“We’re all proud of her, Judge,” Josiah said sincerely, and Mary glowed as the others nodded agreement.

“Well,” Orin said admiringly, “I’d expect no less from a relative of mine. But you can rest now, Mary. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Mary sighed, looked down at the floor. “I hope so.”

“Oh, you may depend on it,” Ezra said with a gallant smile. “Now that we are officially back in business again, I think you may bet on it, my dear, especially with your esteemed father-in-law at the helm.” His expression hardened a little. “We’ll make Concho Charles pay for what he has done here.”

“Yes, we will,” Orin agreed, and he turned back to Mary. “And while we’re rounding up him and his men, I need to know you’re somewhere safe.”

Mary’s eyes blazed. “If you think I’m just going to cower like a simpering - ”

“No,” Orin said firmly, taking Mary by the arms and looking her in the eye. “Any man who would ask you to simper would be looking for a black eye, and I’m not in the market. But I do need you to stay with the other women and the older folk, in the basement of the church.”

Mary opened her mouth to protest.

“Now, Mary,” Orin said in commanding tones. “These people need to see your strength, and your courage. They need you, Mary. Accept it.”

Mary sighed, looked at her father-in-law. Accepted it. And nodded.

Orin looked around at the group and said, “I have to go, gentlemen, I have an outlaw to catch. But I’ll be in touch with all of you before morning comes. And on behalf of this stupid, insolent, backwards town - thank you.”

The men smiled. Vin lifted the whiskey bottle, and as Orin walked out, Mary on his arm, Buck chanced another look at JD. He smiled when he saw how the kid’s face glowed, from sweat and from pride and from the struggle of hiding how bad he was hurting, so the judge wouldn’t see it. _He’s fighting back. Good for you, JD._ We’ll show those demons we ain’t beat yet. Chris’ demons, and the ones comin’ at sunrise on horseback. We’ll show ‘em.

We ain’t beat yet.

Then Buck cleared his throat, and began to get ready for the dawn.

  
  


In the jail, Durning sat in his cell and fumed. He’d been pacing, but was now sitting on the edge of the cot, growling to himself and rocking back and forth with barely suppressed anger.

“Damn that Tims.” He growled to himself, balling his hands into fists and then flexing them out again, over and over. “When I catch up with that little squealer, he’s dead meat. Just wait till I get my hands on that lousy - ”

The jail door opened, and Durning looked up to see Dwight walk in with two men in handcuffs.

“Oh, shit,” he said out loud. Sherson and Childers.

The two men looked at each other, then at Durning. “You snitched on us,” Sherson said darkly.

“No I didn’t,” Durning snapped back as Dwight opened the outside set of bars. “Tims did.”

“Tims!” Childers yelped. “That little bastard.”

“Don’t worry,” Durning said with a smirk. “We’ll get him. Soon as we get out of here.”

“You guys shut up,” Dwight said in a threatening tone as he opened the door to Durning’s cell and shoved the other two into the small space. “Word gets out about what you did, you’ll be lucky if you don’t get lynched.”

“What we did!” Durning gaped at his partners, then at Dwight. “We didn’t do anything, you hick!”

Dwight smiled sarcastically as he hung the keys up on the nail. “Sorry boys, but the money and the goods in your hotel room say otherwise.”

“Oh, so what!” Durning said, then thought a minute and said, “Hey, you know what? You let us out of here, you can have some of that money. It isn’t all in the hotel room. I can get you enough money to blow this one-horse town.”

Dwight turned around, looked at Durning with interest. “You don’t say.”

Durning nodded, and the two other men nodded too, their eyes gleaming encouragement. “So what do you think? We gotta deal?”

“I think...” Dwight said evenly, walking to the bars and grasping them lightly. He paused.

Durning became impatient.

“I think,” Dwight repeated, “that you’re all a bunch of greedy city slickers looking to rip off people you thought were just a group of small-town hicks. I also think you’re about to find out all about what we call frontier justice.”

Durning heard Childers gulp. He asked, “What’s that?”

Dwight smiled in an evil way. “You’ll find out. But it’s not pretty.”

Dwight let go of the bars, and walked to the sheriff’s desk, ignoring the men completely.

“Oh, shit.” Childers said. Then again, “Oh, shit.”

“Will you shut up!” Durning barked, raking his hands through his hair. “Will the both of you just shut up.”

Sherson looked shocked. “I didn’t say anything!”

Durning growled, and buried his head in his hands.

And at his desk, Matthew Dwight smiled to himself and busied himself with the paperwork.

“Frontier justice,” he said quietly to himself, “is the three of you, stuck together, for a good, long time.”

  
  


The first grey haze of morning shimmered over the quiet landscape.

The sky was just on its way from the blackness of the night to the first subtle hues that announced the approaching morning. In the streets, Orin rode stealthily through alleys and back roads, his eyes darting cautiously at the abandoned houses and empty storefronts, where eyes gazed back at him from under caps of Federal blue. The outlaws that had been in the town had been rounded up a few hours before, herded to a nearby barn for safekeeping. The trap was waiting. All it had to do now was be sprung.

In the basement of the church, Mary went around with Dwight, talking to the large crowd of people that had gathered in that tense space and trying to calm their fears. Emmie Walters was there, as was Gloria and two Mexican girls Mary remembered seeing in the streets some nights. The younger of these two looked particularly afraid, and although her Spanish wasn’t very good, Mary did her best to calm the child down. The older girl, who told Mary her name was Rita, smiled and thanked her. Mary smiled back, and felt a little less resentful about not being allowed to blast Concho Charles’ head off.

Meeting Dwight in the middle of the room, Mary rubbed her palms together as she surveyed the milling, nervous townspeople. “I hope we’re safe enough here.”

Dwight nodded with confidence. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Travis. There’s a guard at the outside stairwell, as well as a few soldiers outside the church.”

Mary looked at him uncertainly. “Only a few?”

Dwight shrugged. “Sure, we didn’t want to tip our hand to Concho that most all of Four Corners is in this basement. He might come here lookin’ for hostages.”

Mary glanced around quickly. No one had heard that potentially panic-inducing comment. Mostly, people were just looking bleary from not enough sleep, and scared. Very scared.

Gloria came over to the cot, greeted Mary with a somber smile. “May I sit down?”

Mary shrugged, gave her friend a tight little smile in return.

Gloria sat down, shook her head and said quietly, “Look at them, Mary. I’ve never seen these people so on edge.”

Mary nodded. “After this morning, I might not have a newspaper anymore. The town didn’t try to take it from me, but he might.”

Gloria gave a light laugh. “Somehow I doubt that. I don’t think Concho Charles would take the trouble to drag off your printing press.”

Mary smiled, felt her heart lift a little.

Gloria sighed as she studied the people in the room, young and old, sitting and standing, a collection of phantoms in the uneven lamplight. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, Mary. If only they’d listened to you, to reason. If only they’d thought with their common sense, instead of their common fears. Maybe we’d have been all right.”

Mary licked her lips, looked at the floor.   
“But,” Gloria said regretfully, “they had to try and run Mr. Tanner and the others off, and now we’re all stuck here waitin’ to see if we got a town to go back to. I don’t know, Mary. Do you think they’ll ever learn?”

Mary looked at Gloria, saw the fatigued wonder behind those brown eyes, and thought.

While she thought, Gloria said with a smile, “You’ll be a hard person to be around for a while, Mary, you know that? They’ll all have to avoid you. Don’t take it personally.”

Mary looked at her friend crossly. “What do you mean?”

“Well, think about it,” Gloria replied, waving her hand. “You were right. You told these people from the beginning. Conklin, from the beginning, you told him to trust the hired guns, and no one listened to you. They thought they knew everything, and what did you know? You’re just a woman, after all, and so heir to misconceptions. So Conklin takes Mr. Dunne’s badge, pins it on and thinks that makes him a sheriff. Trouble is, Concho Charles doesn’t take that very seriously, not like he takes Tanner and the others, and now here we are, and these people all know if they had just listened to you...if they’d just listened to you, Mary, we’d be asleep in our beds and Mr. Townsend would still be alive. You were right, Mary. You were right, and that’s mighty hard for these people to accept. But they will, eventually.”

“I hope so.” Mary said softly, but she was having trouble caring at the moment. “I just want this day to be over.”

Gloria smiled in commiseration. “Me too, Mary. Me too.”

And the two women sat side by side, and waited for the dawn.


	14. Chapter 14

Far above the basement of the church, Tims looked out of the window of Nathan’s room into the streets below. They were just barely visible in the predawn light, but even in that dim gloom the broken glass and splintered planks of wood were seen in ugly piles everywhere. Tims sighed and shook his head.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” he asked Buck, who was leaning on Nathan’s desk and loading his shotgun. Tims asked the question softly, because JD was still asleep, but Buck heard him and smiled.

“Son, I know the judge pretty good,” he replied quietly. “And I ain’t seen a plan of his fail yet.”

“How many of his plans have you seen?” Tims asked as he checked his own gun.

“Uh - “ Buck’s face changed to mock irritation. “Don’t ask questions, son, just make sure you got enough bullets in that thing.”

Tims checked the cylinder as Buck eyed him. He’d agreed with the judge that having Tims under house arrest, and helping them out, was better than having his ‘friends’ strangle him in their cell, but still he hoped this fancy-pants Easterner was a better shot than he looked. ‘Cause he looked like he couldn’t shoot worth a damn.

There was a muffled sound behind Buck, and he turned to see JD turning over sleepily in the bed, rubbing his eyes with his good hand. He squinted up at Buck and asked, “What’s going on?”

“Oh, nothin’,” Buck said lightly, setting the rifle aside. “We’re just waitin’ for our visit from Concho Charles. How’re you feelin’, son? Want some breakfast?”

JD thought a moment, then nodded.

“Good.” Buck smiled encouragingly. “I think that can be arranged. Flapjacks, or potatoes?”

JD sighed, scratched his head. “Potatoes.”

“Comin’ right up.” Buck said, and stood up.

“No, I’ll get it,” Tims said, moving toward the door. “I know where the restaurant is.”

“Oh. Okay.” Buck said with a smile. “Thanks. Pan fried, now, we gotta fatten this boy back up.”

“Got it.” Tims said, and was out the door.

JD watched him leave, then turned his healing face to his friend. “Buck?”

Buck looked at him, decided he looked better. Not a hundred percent yet, but better. “Yeah, kid?”

“I wanna help.”

Buck’s expression turned puzzled. “Help?”

“With this.” JD gestured toward the window. “With you guys, fighting Concho Charles.”

Buck grew more puzzled. “Well, I reckon bein’ stuck in bed would make you restless, son, but I don’t see how - ”

“You can put me in a chair,” JD said convincingly, awkwardly pushing himself up in the bed with one hand, “By that window, the one that faces the street. I can see the whole street from there, and you know what a good shot I am, Buck - ”

“Well, yeah, I know, son,” Buck said uncertainly, torn between being overjoyed that the boy was at last showing some of that spark Buck thought might be lost for good, and knowing that all JD was going to do was get himself killed. “But now what would Nathan say if he saw you settin’ there waitin’ to get your head blown off?”

JD set his face petulantly. “If I was all right I’d be fighting with you guys, right?”

Buck laughed. “We ain’t been able to stop you yet.”

“So?” JD reasoned, gesturing towards the window. “You’d let me fight then, why not let me fight now? I can shoot with one hand, I’ll be fine Buck, I just...I can’t just sit by and watch this happen. The judge said he needs every single one of us, and that’s me too. Please, Buck. You’ve got to let me fight.”

Buck sighed, looked at JD again. He could tell how badly JD wanted to do this. It was in the boy’s eyes, that hadn’t shone as they did now for a long time. And the set of JD’s jaw, Buck realized he’d seen that expression before, in a dusty Indian village six months earlier. If he told JD to stay out of this fight, the boy would find a way into it anyway. He would, just to show Buck and the others he could. And to show the judge, too.

JD was fighting his demons. And Buck knew he had no choice but to let him.

Buck shook his head, couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “All right, Nathan’ll probably kill me, but...I’ll get you set up, but you got to promise me that you’ll give it up if it gets too hectic.”

“Oh, I will, you bet. Thanks, Buck,” JD said earnestly, and grinned, the first real grin in five days. The bruise was still there, the stitches would be for a little while yet, but somehow they faded when JD put on that I-can-do-anything smile. Buck had to stop himself from laughing out loud from the sheer joy of seeing it again.

Buck got up, went to the window, cocked his head and thought. “Well, all right then. Have to move this table I guess, get you some pillows so’s you can see all right...best get a move on, we don’t got a lot of time.”

JD nodded, then looked down at himself and said, “Buck?”

Buck had both hands on the table and was trying to move it. It was heavier than it looked. “Yeah, kid?”

“What happened to my clothes?”

“Uh - “ Buck stopped and looked around, saw a neatly tied bundle on the floor. “They’re right here, where the laundress left them.”

JD tilted his head. “Can I have them? I don’t want to fight in my underwear.”

“Sure, kid.” Buck handed the clothes to JD.

JD sat up, accepted the bundle as Buck handed it to him. “Thanks, Buck. My hat?”

“Hm.” Buck looked around. “Now I don’t know where that is. But I’ll find it, don’t worry.”

JD nodded, started to untie the bundle, then stopped and thought a moment. “Hey, Buck?”

Buck was back at the table, trying to move it. “Yeah, JD?”

JD glanced at the door that Tims had just exited through, and when Buck looked at him his young, battered face was a map of confusion. “Who was that guy?”

  
  


His army was moving through the desert.

It was not a large army, or a fancy one. But an army nonetheless, a determined army. An army set on pillage.

The sun would not come up for a short while yet, but Concho Charles knew they had a lot of ground to cover, and wanted to arrive in Four Corners just a little early. He rode at the head of the men, over fifty strong, and as he rode he tried to remember why he hadn’t done this a long time ago.

They were only seven men, Concho thought to himself as he rode through the dusty dawn. Only seven, and one of them was only a boy. Well, yes, but they knew what they were doing, and that Chris Larabee was a killer. Concho could have gotten his men into Four Corners, but sooner or later Larabee would have found him out, and everything would have been over.

But now...Concho smiled as he knew they were nearing the town. Now Larabee was gone, and probably not coming back. The boy was injured, crippled for life he’d been told, so good riddance to him. If Torres valued his life, the boy was dead, along with the others. None of them had come back to the hideout, so Concho knew that they must be in the town. He’d wanted to be sure, though, so he’d sent an advance party, with instructions to meet them just outside the town. He would have Four Corners back; there would never be a better time.

The dark sky overhead was turning lighter blue, and light pink clouds sketched airy lines into the dawn. Ah, a beautiful day. Concho smiled. A glorious day indeed.

They came upon the last low hill before the town, and Concho held up his hand to halt his men. He scanned the scrubby landscape before them, searched for the advance party. Ah, there it was, five horsemen waiting for him just outside the low jumble of rocks and hills that surrounded the town. With a satisfied smile, Concho urged his men forward.

“So,” Concho asked with a smirk as he drew close to the horsemen. “Everything ready?”

The lead horseman nodded, his face blank.

“Ah, wonderful.” Concho sighed, gazing at the town that sat before him, its few lights shimmering in the predawn darkness. He heard a commotion behind him, turned around. There were too many men behind him to see all the way to the back, but he could see to the top of the low rise behind them.

And he saw the row of cavalry standing there, their outlines stark against the lightening sky.

“What the - ” Concho blurted, turning around. “I thought you - ”

He stopped, gaped. Behind the horsemen, rising out of the bushes, were three men that should have been dead, all with shotguns aimed at his head. In the road ahead of him were at least ten Federal soldiers, their guns drawn, looking very serious.

“Mornin’, Mr. Charles,” one of the men, who Concho recognised as Tanner, said with a small smile. “Thought we’d make this easy on you, an’ give you a chance to surrender, you and all your men.”

“What!” Concho pulled out his gun and aimed it at Tanner with liquid ease.

A loud shot went off, and the gun was ripped from his hand.

Concho brought his stinging hand back, gasping, his eyes going to the large, bearded man who’d fired the shot.

“Not very neighborly,” the bearded man intoned. “Now come on, Concho. Surrender your men. You’re surrounded, and we got too many dead already.”

Concho glared at his horsemen, “You idiots, you led me right into a trap! How dare you!”

“Don’t go too hard on ‘em,” Tanner said sympathetically, coming out of the bushes, “It was this or get shot. Most men would rather live than die for no reason.”

Right then, in the rising light, Concho noticed that the advance party all had their hands tied to their saddles.

“But you see,” Tanner continued in the same gentle tone, “we had to get you close enough so’s you didn’t run off. Now I don’t care much for these men, but all the same I’d rather not shoot ‘em. So put up your gun, Mr. Charles. You’re under arrest.”

Concho looked around, at the soldiers, at Tanner, at his men who were looking around in frightened confusion. He bristled, tightened his hands on the reins.

The big preacher shook his head, raised his shotgun. “Mr. Charles, your men beat up a couple of very good friends of mine. Please don’t make me fight the better angels of my nature and blow your head off.”

The hands slackened, and Concho let his gaze drop. The men behind him milled dazedly, unsure what to do.

One of the soldiers dismounted and came toward him, his gun up as he reached out one gloved hand. “Give me your gun.”

Concho didn’t move, let the soldier come a little closer.

“Careful.” he heard Tanner whisper to the soldier.

The soldier took one step closer.

And Concho struck upward with one steel-toed boot, and kicked him in the face.

“Go to hell!” he cried, and with a rough cry spurred his horse forward at a breakneck pace.

And suddenly the air around him was full of flying lead.

  
  


Vin grunted as the stricken soldier fell back against him. Concho had barrelled off, and his men followed him through the line of soldiers, who all drew their guns and blasted at the attacking men. Many of the men broke through; some didn’t and were captured by the soldiers, the rest of whom thundered past Vin, Josiah, and Nathan and into the town.

“Come on!” Vin heard Nathan call out, and with Josiah he was running for his horse, which was nearby. Vin shook his head, and righting the soldier again watched him rub his jaw and spew forth a fountain of profanity. Then Vin rubbed his aching shoulder, and followed his friends.

  
  


JD readjusted the pillows on his chair, setting his good elbow on the windowsill and looking down the street. Far in the distance, he could see Buck and Ezra standing on the roofs, one on either side of the street, their guns poised and ready. It was just about dawn.

He sighed and glanced behind him, into the room. Tims was there, still a little nervous, but a lot more put together than JD thought he’d be for a businessman who’d never really fired a gun before. He was standing at the other window, which really didn’t face much of anywhere, but Buck thought he’d be safer there than anywhere else.

“You’re really from New York?” JD asked, impressed.

Tims looked over at him and nodded. “Uh - huh. You ever been there?”

JD shook his head. “But I used to know people who were from there. They talked kind of funny.”

“Huh, well,” Tims smiled, “We think you-all talk pretty strange out here too.”

JD laughed, then heard a thunderous roar coming down the street. He sucked in his breath, felt the adrenalin rush he’d missed so bad. JD felt a wild thrill of excitement. It’s like my first battle, and I don’t care if I have to shoot one-handed, or that I can’t ride. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.

He saw a horseman coming up the street. Two, three. And a huge cloud of dust.

JD’s heart jumped, and he pushed himself up so his elbow was squared against the windowsill. Not for the world!

He grinned ear to ear, took in a huge gulp of air and shouted to no one in particular, “Here they come!”

  
  


The earth felt like it was coming down on them.

Mary heard the rumble from the church basement, where she’d been waiting with Gloria and Emmie Walters and many of the townsfolk, waiting to see if by some miracle their town would be spared. And now the fight was upon them.

“Listen to that!” Emmie whispered as the ground shook around them. They could all hear the rattling of the windows upstairs, heard gunshots too. A few people covered their ears.

Matthew Dwight was standing in the center of the room, where everyone could see him. He held up his hand and listened, his eyes on the ceiling.

“Don’t worry, folks,” he said reassuringly. “They know what they’re doing. We’ll be all right.”

Mary sighed, and prayed that Dwight was correct.

  
  


Concho and his men raced through the streets of Four Corners, fanning out into every street in the city, but they met disaster at every turn. Every door and window was bristling with Federal troops, and as soon as the outlaws came into view guns were leveled, and as one the troops opened fire.

A hail of bullets rained down on Concho’s men, who fired back in kind. The noise was deafening, the bullets ripped holes in the buildings and shattered windows, and men fell into the street groaning, injured, or dead.

Concho raced down the main street, firing his gun at anything that moved. Suddenly he looked up and saw, in front of the jail, a thick line of Federal troops, all with their guns aimed at him. He pulled his horse up, his men piling behind him in a blinding swirl of brown dust. A quick glance to the rear showed more troops, and in front of them those three gunslingers he was sure would be gone or dead by now. They should have been, but there they were, the preacher and the darky and that damn tracker. All still alive. Concho let out a small growl of impotent fury and glared at them.

A door opened, just next to Concho. Judge Travis stepped out of the jail, his shotgun raised, his face stern and merciless.

“Drop the gun,” he commanded in icy tones, his eyes locked on Concho like a hawk.

Concho’s men fell silent behind him, and there was a thick silence for a moment. Travis glanced up; Buck and Ezra were slowly advancing over the roofs, their guns pointed at Concho, their bodies tense against the pink morning sky.

Concho paused, considered.

Travis’ eyes narrowed. “Give it up, son. It’s finished.”

Concho’s eyes went suddenly wide, and he let out an inarticulate scream and fired a shot at the soldiers. They fired back, and he fell off his horse, but in a moment his men swarmed around him, and the soldiers rushed forward.

And the fight was on.

  
  


As soon as Concho’s men realized that they could no longer go forward, their primary objective turned from takeover to escape. Renegades were everywhere, careening down alleys, riding back up the street they had just ridden down, diving off their horses to try to escape on foot, if they had to.

And the hired guns were trying to stop them all.

Vin, Nathan, and Josiah were in the rear when Concho’s men decided to try to break out, and as a result were almost stampeded by the headlong rush of men, mindlessly spurring their horses to spring forward against all common sense. The horses fought against the maneuver, but their riders urged them on, and the men found themselves having to move, or have hundreds of pounds of horseflesh slam into them at full gallop.

Vin sensed it first, saw the frightened horses rearing and blowing, and their trapped riders spinning them about and cruelly jabbing them to make them run. At first it was just a few; then suddenly there was a wave of movement from back to front, and Vin’s eyes widened.

“Move!” he suddenly shouted, and forced his horse sideways as a shrieking, shouting mob of horsemen barreled past, bashing their steeds into the soldiers’ mounts in their frantic bid for escape.

Nathan and Josiah barely made it out of the way in time. They opened fire on the outlaws as they rode past, then spurred their horses in hot pursuit. There were about twenty of Concho’s men who made it past them, and thundered for the desert. Vin cursed, and hoped they could catch them before they got there.

  
  


_This is just like Gettysburg_. Buck ran from one rooftop to the next, taking shots at various outlaws to try and keep the odds even. Except that little Pennsylvania town had houses you couldn’t run on the roofs of. But it was just as noisy, the sound of gunfire ricocheting off the brick and glass like it would go on forever, and never stop.

Buck looked down, saw the mass of outlaws and Federal blue soldiers and if he squinted, damned if it didn’t look like a mess of Rebs and Yanks tanglin’ together. Hey, Chris, he wanted to say, ain’t it just like old times?  
But, shoot. Chris wasn’ t there.

Buck aimed, fired, brought another man out of his saddle. Shit, it is about an even match, ain’t it? Almost as many outlaws down there as soldiers. He glanced over, saw Ezra at his post on the roof of the Clarion, firing down at the approaching outlaws with deadly precision. And over in the window at Nathan’s...

Buck looked over, had to smile. There was JD, practically hanging out the window, aiming and firing, looked like he was aiming near the jail. He’d put his clothes on, was wearing the familiar brown checkered suit, and as his black hair whipped back and forth as he looked around, Buck suddenly realized that he’d missed that stupid suit. It was actually good to see that shade of brown, under that black hair and over that white shirt. Well, shit. Never would have thought of that.

JD looked up, saw Buck, waved his gun.

Buck smiled and waved back. “Give ‘em hell, kid!”

Buck didn’t know if JD heard him, but the boy grinned anyway, and kept firing. A bullet slammed into the window frame behind his head, and Buck sucked in his breath as JD ducked into the window and then back out again, his face flushed with excitement.

Jesus, don’t get killed, kid. Reloading his pistol, Buck ran to the next rooftop, and thought of Gettysburg.

  
  


Durning, Childers, and Sherson crouched down in their cell, covering their ears and trying not to think about the battle erupting outside of the red-brick protection of the jail.

Childers looked up. “Hey, Sherson.”

Sherson glanced up, irritated. “What?”

“You ever in the War?”

Sherson shook his head. “I’m not that stupid. Why?”

Childers grinned. “I was, Seventy-First New York. Excelsior Brigade.”

“Will you two shut up!” Durning shouted, his eyes darting nervously at the jumbling cascade of soldiers and horses outside the large jail window.

Sherson glared back at Childers, clearly unimpressed. “So you were in the War. So what?”

“Sounded just like this,” Childers said almost fondly. “Boy, you missed out on a party! Those were some great times.”

“Wait a minute.” Sherson looked back at his associate. “Excelsior Brigade.”

Childers nodded.

“Jesus, Childers, that was Dan Sickle’s outfit! You idiots almost cost us the war!”

“Bullshit!” Childers returned hotly. “You should have seen where we got stuck! We had to move!”

“I’m going to **kill you two** in a minute!” Durning shrieked, staring at his cellmates bug-eyed as they regarded him with open shock.

There was a pause while they all listened to the thunderous battle outside, too stunned by what was going on to say much of anything. Then Sherson said, “When my wife finds out about this, she’s going to kill me.”

Durning glared at him menacingly, then said, “Mine isn’t going to find out. I already got a story for her.”

Childers nodded. “Me too. If you think I’m going to let her in on what we’ve been up to, you’re nuts.”

Sherson regarded the two men in amazement. “But they’ll find out eventually. We’ll have records.”

“Are you really that stupid?” Durning mocked angrily. “Once we blow this hole, you’ll have tons of time to make something up. Say you were framed. Say these idiots saw your fancy clothes and went berserk.”

Sherson looked dubious. “You sure that’ll work?”

Durning eyed Sherson meaningfully. “As dumb as your wife is, Sherson? It’ll work.”

Sherson scowled, and was about to get up and deck Durning when Childers looked toward the front of the jail and said, “Hey, that judge guy is gone!”

Sherson looked up. Travis was standing at the open door, his rifle in his hand, staring with steely determination into the street. Four soldiers were standing with him.

Durning shook his head angrily. “See if I don’t gut that bastard Tims when this is all through. That good-for-nothing snitch cost me everything.”

A gunshot sent splinters flying out of the doorway. The judge shouldered his rifle, took a few steps away from the door.

Childers was shaking his head too, when suddenly his expression changed and he leaned forward and grabbed Durning, pointing behind him. Durning looked.

A ragged-looking blond youth was stealthily making his way toward them, moving quietly but very fast. As the men watched, he scooted up to the outer jail cell door and quickly jimmied it open.

The businessmen stared at him as he hurried to the bars.

“I’m Billings,” the youth whispered to them. With a rotten grin he started to jimmy the second lock, “Concho sent me in here for you.”

“Did he.” Durning grunted.

Billings nodded as the cell door popped open. All of the men crawled forward, but Billings closed the door a bit and whispered, “Not all of you. Just one.”

The men looked at each other.

“I get to go,” Sherson said. “If I’d been running this whole thing, I’d have got rid of that rat Tims a long time ago!”

“No,” Childers argued. “I should be the one to go, you guys’d be dead in two seconds out there. Why should I let you waste my chance at blowing this hole?”

Durning sighed in angry frustration and pushed both men out of the way, muscling his way through the cell door as quick as he could before Billings shut it again.

Childers and Sherson both grabbed the bars and glared, but Durning ignored their hot stares of hatred and followed Billings to the open side door, sparing his former business associates and partners in crime only a snide smile and a sarcastic wave on the way out.

Sherson and Childers looked at each other for a split second, reading the same hurt and bewilderment on each others’ faces. Then they turned as one toward the front of the jail, took a deep breath and yelled, “ **Jailbreak**!”

  
  


Vin spurred his horse faster, racing to catch up with the desperados that were trying to lose him through the labyrinthian streets. His shoulder ached, threatened to distract him; Vin shook it off, and continued riding.

Nathan thundered along next to him, shaking his head in frustration. They could see as they barreled through the dusty roads the growing number of dead and injured soldiers, and not enough of Concho’s men had fallen to force the remaining horsemen to give up. They fired back at their pursuers, and Vin ducked as a bullet whizzed past his head.

On his other side, Josiah was firing his gun and letting out angry grunts, and still the fleeing outlaws would not slow down. Vin caught a glimpse of blurred forms on the rooftops as they galloped down the street: Buck and Ezra, covering their backs. The outlaws would be at the edge of town soon, Vin knew, and once they were out of the confines of the buildings they could fan out in a dozen directions, and be lost. They couldn’t let it happen.

Suddenly there was a blinding pain in his head, and Vin’s hat flew off into the street. Shocked, he automatically put his hand up to his scalp, and it came away slick with bright red blood.

“Shit,” Vin breathed, putting his hand up there again. After the initial pain, it had gone numb, but that wouldn’t last, and he could already feel the rivulets of blood snaking down the side of his face.

Nathan glanced over. “Vin! You’re hit!”

“I know,” the tracker replied laconically. He was getting closer to the end of the street, and now the pain was starting. As if his shoulder weren’t bad enough...The gash in his scalp started throbbing, but he kept riding.

He had to.

  
  


Buck ran along the rooftops as he watched Vin, Nathan, and Josiah ride past, firing his rifle at the outlaws who were trying to escape. A few went down, but not enough, and the ones that were left behind were fighting as if they had nothing left to lose. Buck cursed. Time to get Ezra and ride after the others, help if they could. Buck’s eyes went to the rooftops across the street, where he’d just seen Ezra galloping a moment before, didn’t see him. Buck squinted, saw the dirty form of a bandit crumpled on the rooftop, but no sign of the gambler. Hm, that was odd. Ezra couldn’t have gotten down that quick -

Then a flash of white caught Buck’s eye, and he blinked. The white seemed to be behind the rooftop, but...oh, wait, something else was moving...

Then Buck made the image out. Ezra’s black pants, blending in with the black-topped roofs.

Ezra was down.

“God damn,” Buck whispered, trying to look closer, but of course that was impossible. He ran to the rear of the roof, and hunted for a quick way down.

  
  


Durning crouched low as he and Billings made their way down the narrow alley that ran behind the buildings of Four Corners’ main street. Durning grinned to himself. As soon as they’d gotten out of the jail, he found three of Concho’s men waiting for them in the alley, and they’d sped off together like they were old friends, Billings in front, Durning in the middle, the other three men behind them. The air around them rang with gunfire, but Durning felt powerful, impervious to the bullets. This was going to be a piece of -

“Hold it!”

A bullet whizzed by Durning’s ear, and he cursed and cowered to the ground. Staring behind him, he saw Concho’s men crouching and firing at two Federal soldiers, who were running up the narrow alley. One soldier fell, the other was toppled by his partner’s falling body, but was struggling back to his feet. Behind him, Durning saw three or four more coming, their dark blue uniforms black in the early morning light.

“Shit!” Billings spat. “Your friends must have raised the alarm. Come on!”

Durning gulped, hung onto Billings as the youth ran, fast, down the alley, gunfire now closing in behind them and loud, very loud. Durning ducked and cursed to himself, running as fast as his unexercised body could carry him. He would get Sherson and Childers, after he got Tims. Bunch of no good -

Suddenly a figure stepped out of the shadows ahead of them, then three more, guns held high and firing. Durning squawked in terror and skidded to his knees, hands to his ears to block out the deafening gunfire, but as soon as he saw who it was, and who they were aiming at, he relaxed. He was gonna be okay.

It was Concho. And he was killing the soldiers.

  
  


Josiah noticed the outlaws ahead of them slowing down, jerking on their horses’ bridles to bring them to a sudden, startled halt. Ahead of them, in a swirling cloud of dust, a dozen Federal soldiers lined up, blocking their exit. As soon as they had slowed down enough to avoid a collision, the outlaws opened fire, and Josiah hurriedly guided his horse to a nearby alleyway, just as the soldiers leveled their guns and fired back.

As soon as he was out of the line of fire, Josiah looked back into the street, Vin was trying to follow Nathan to the alley on the other side of the street, but was clutching his head and bending low on one side of his saddle. The healer had dismounted, and was reaching out for Vin just as the other man leaned too far over and fell, practically into Nathan’s arms. Taking the reins of both their horses, Nathan almost ran to the alley opposite Josiah, supporting Vin as he went.

Josiah shook his head as he watched the gunfight and readied his pistol. Please God, he prayed as he prepared to fire, it’s been rough enough. Not Vin too.

  
  


Durning waited until Concho lowered his gun, a look of grim satisfaction on his leering face, to take his hands from his ears and look behind him.

What he saw made him wince.

The soldiers were all dead, but so were the three men who had been running behind Durning. The unfamiliar sight of bullet-ridden bodies made Durning want to gag, but he quickly distanced himself from the blood-spattered mess he was looking at. Their problem. He turned back to where Concho was still standing, his henchmen behind him. It was then that Durning noticed that Concho was looking pretty pale, and clutching his right side with a bloodied handkerchief. He was breathing heavily, and slumped over a bit as Billings quickly got to his feet.

“Hey, boss.” Billings grinned, pointing to Durning. “I got him, just like you said.”

Concho looked at Durning through half-closed eyelids, smiled as though it was an effort. “Good boy, Billings. Looks like you get to live another day.”

“Hey, Concho,” Durning said with comfortable familiarity, rising to his feet. The other men were glaring at him, but let them, Durning thought. They were just jealous. “Thanks for springing me.”

Concho just looked at him.

Durning had a sudden, panicking thought. “Oh - no, Concho, it wasn’t me that told them soldiers you were coming. It was Tims, that little rat, and believe me if I get my hands on him before you do there won’t be much left.”

“Is that a fact,” Concho said, with a little difficulty, his expression still distinctly unfriendly.

“Yeah,” Durning replied, bringing his head up a bit. “I wouldn’t rat on you, Concho. I’m a friend of yours. Let the others rot, that’s what I say.”

“Indeed,” Concho said with a little smile, and his dark eyes glittered as he put out his hand and patted Durning’s arm. “Let the others rot. You’re the only one I’m interested in.”

Billings looked back down the alley nervously. “We’d better get going.”

Concho grunted as his henchmen formed a group around him, and they began making their way down the narrow, unprotected alley. The gunfire sounded louder, closer. They couldn’t have been far from it.

“So you want me in the gang, huh?” Durning brought his head up with an arrogant swagger, horning his way to Concho’s right-hand side. “Guess it was pretty obvious I was the only smart one, huh? So what do you want me for, a partner?”

“No,” Concho said and stopped, his men stopping with him. His stare got cold and hard, and suddenly one of the henchmen looped his arm around Durning’s neck, and yanked it back tight.

“Urk!” Durning gargled, and felt the cold barrel of a gun jammed against his side. He looked at Billings helplessly, but the youth was blinking at the scene stupidly, his blue eyes vacant and afraid. The other henchmen just looked at him with emotionless, dead eyes. Except for Concho, who was eyeing him gleefully as he stepped up close.

“Actually,” the outlaw hissed, his face deathly pale but murderous, “I was thinking more as a hostage.”

  
  


Buck darted among the outlaws, Federals, and horses in the street, shooting his way across as he tried to reach where he’d seen Ezra lying wounded. Ducking his way across the street, Buck hurried into the building, which happened to be a boarding house, and quickly ran up the stairs and in a moment was up on the roof.

“Ezra?” Buck called out as he worked his way across the flat surface, his gun drawn. The outlaw lying motionless was no longer a problem, but who knows how many of his friends might show up.

The gambler was lying on his back, his eyes closed, his face twisted in agony. _Shit._ Buck noticed as he drew near that Ezra had his right hand low on his back, and was letting out a painful-sounding moan.

“Ya hurt bad?” Buck asked, fighting the rising swell of panic. He didn’t need this, not right now of all times. First JD, and now Ezra. Buck’s eyes fell to Ezra’s leg, and he looked for any sign of a wound.

Ezra continued to moan, sat up a little and opened his eyes.

Buck crouched down next to him. “Hey, don’t move now! Let me get Nathan - ”

To his surprise, Ezra shot him a dry look and said, “Mr. Wilmington, I hardly think our associate can be of use to me...“ He made a motion with his right hand, which was still on his back, and Buck saw him slowly pull out his silver flask. A bullet was embedded in its slightly twisted form; brandy was quickly dribbling out of the ragged hole.

Buck stared.

The last few drops of brandy spilled out of the flask and onto the black rooftop. Ezra watched it drip out and in a sad voice said, “...unless he is a silversmith.”

Buck stood up, relieved but feeling himself getting riled. “You had me run hell bent for leather all the way over here and you weren’t even shot?!”

Ezra remained in his supine position and gave Buck a little glare. “Mr. Wilmington, I was hardly uninjured. That rascal fired on me at close range, and I assure you I will have a bruise two days from now that I will under no circumstances be showing to you.”

Buck made a face, and, taking Ezra’s arm, heaved him up. Together they made their way to the front of the building. The street below was still frantic with activity, an undulating morass of horses, soldiers, and outlaws, all thick with dust and blood and grime until it was difficult to tell the two sides apart.

Ezra shook his head grimly. “These vermin are not going gently.”

“Nope.” Buck sighed as he looked up the street. A loud chorus of gunfire was echoing from there, bouncing off the walls of the buildings and mixing with shouts and screams. The battle was at the front door now.

Almost at the same moment, Ezra and Buck looked down to see Judge Travis in the street below them, on his horse and holding a rifle. Four mounted soldiers surrounded him. He looked up at them and called out, “Outlaws are trying to make a run for it! Come on!”

With that, Travis plunged his horse into the melee of horses and men that were scattered around the street.

Buck looked at Ezra and shrugged as he checked the chamber of his pistol. “You heard the man.”

“Yes, indeed.” Ezra sighed, and together they ran for the stairs.

  
  


Nathan hauled Vin into the alley, set him down against the wooden-slatted wall. Next to them, outlaws and soldiers were firing at each other with reckless abandon, but Nathan didn’t care. His world was focused on the man in front of him, and that man was pale and bleeding badly.

Vin winced as Nathan touched his scalp, half-opened his eyes and batted the healer away with a scowl.

“Leave me be,” Vin muttered irritably, and tried to get up.

“Now you just forget about that,” Nathan replied just as irritably, and gently pushed Vin back down again. The blood was dripping down the tracker’s face, into his shirt, his eyes, his hair. Nathan cursed. The only thing he had to staunch the blood with one of their dirty bandannas. He sighed, and began to untie his own.

Suddenly a hand thrust in front of him, holding a white handkerchief. “Here, use this.”

Nathan blinked, looked up. A tall, stocky man was standing next to him, bending over and looking at Nathan with earnest eyes.

“Um - thanks,” Nathan replied, taking the handkerchief and unfolding it once. He pressed it on Vin’s wound. The tracker winced, and let out a low, groggy moan.

“Not at all. At yer service,” the man replied, and when Nathan looked up again his benefactor was trotting down the shadowy alleyway, and a moment later rounded the corner and was gone.

Vin opened his eyes a slit. “Was that you talkin’ just now?”

Nathan shook his head. “I don’t got no Irish accent.”

Vin nodded in satisfaction, closed his eyes again. “Thank God. Thought for a moment there I was losin’ my mind.”

  
  


Durning clawed frantically at the huge arm that was gripping his neck and dragging him down the alleyway. He couldn’t breathe, and he was starting to panic.

“All right, hold it,” Concho said in low tones, and they all stopped. The iron grip relaxed a bit, and Durning gasped for air, looked around. They were in a small, secluded alley, fenced on three sides by a high-walled fence and the side of a building. The henchmen were glancing around tensely, and Concho was shaking his head as if he was having trouble concentrating.

Durning took the opportunity to ask, “Jeez, Concho, I thought we were helping each other. I thought - ”

“Shuttup,” Concho growled as his eyes scanned the alley, and Durning felt the chokehold around his neck tighten again.

“What do we do now?” Billings asked nervously, hoisting his gun.

Concho’s breathing could be plainly heard as he paced back and forth, glaring at Durning. “We have a hostage, and we can get to the livery from here. We meet any resistance, we’ll tell them if they don’t let us go, the fat easterner gets it.”

The hold tightened again. Durning felt as if he was going to throw up.

“And then,” Concho said in contemplative tones, “if we can get to Jericho, we can lay low until the heat’s off, then make some contacts and come back and finish this place off.”

There were leering smiles from Concho’s henchmen, and chortling laughter. Durning’s stomach dropped, and he felt his heart start to pound. _Jesus Christ. I am going to die._

_No, wait -_

_No, I’m not._

There was still gunfire coming from just ahead of them, and Concho was loading his gun when he heard Durning say, “Hey, Concho!”

“What?” Concho didn’t look up.

“You’re going at this all wrong, you know? I can get you somebody better than me for a hostage. A lot better.”

Now Concho looked up. Everyone looked up, over, and down, at Durning.

Concho stepped closer, nodded to the bully holding onto Durning’s neck. The man took his arm away, but just as quickly Concho brought up his gun and jabbed it into Durning’s ribs. “You have thirty seconds. Go.”

Durning rubbed his neck, shot the bully a dirty look before turning earnest eyes to Concho and saying, “Well, come on, think! You got me as a hostage, but what am I worth to the judge? Nothing! He’s never seen me before in his life. But over in the church basement is a gold mine of hostages, and one of ‘em is Travis’ daughter-in-law. You get your mitts on her, you got a free ticket to anywhere in the world.”

Concho cocked an eyebrow. “You’re sure she’s at the church?”

Durning nodded in confidence. “Positive. Deputy took her and a bunch of the townspeople over there this morning, before you guys came.”

Concho traded expressions with his fellow outlaws. “Really.”

“Yep.” Durning was starting to feel smug again, crossed his arms and leaned back. “They’re all just sitting over there, waiting for you. Couple of soldiers, but nothing we can’t take care of, right? So what do you say?”

Concho shook his head, stabbed the gun into Durning’s ribcage again. “You didn’t think I was going to let you go?”

“Let me go?” Durning said in surprise. “Concho, don’t you get it? I’m your friend! I want a piece of this life you guys got going here. Just don’t kill me so quick, and I’ll get Mary Travis for you. I promise.”

Concho finally put up his gun, but glared at Durning and said, “You cross me on this one, Durning, and I have many friends who will be more than happy to tear you to pieces, very slowly.”

“Don’t worry, Concho,” Durning said confidently as stepped away from that strangling arm and threw his captor a winning smile. “I got a score to settle with that bitch myself. Trust me - we’ll both get what we want.”

  
  


JD noticed as he continued to fire into the street that a lot of the outlaws were dead, or giving up. The action down at their end of town seemed to be dying down, the outlaws must be making a run for it by trying to go out the front way. JD felt a little twinge of disappointment. He wanted to be where he could help, and there was no way he could get there.

“It’s quieting down,” Tims remarked, looking out his window at the blowing dust glimmering in the dawning sunshine.

JD sighed, nodded. “Yeah.”

Tims brought his gun down. He looked over at JD and asked, “You sound kind of upset. You okay?”

JD shrugged, opened his mouth as he looked out the window. The excitement of the battle had drained him, and now that it was almost over he felt empty, depressed, and reminded that this was probably his last gun battle ever. Soon Buck would come by - he was okay, JD knew he was, just knew it - and they’d be off to San Francisco. And then - a home? A hospital? For the rest of his life. His western dream was over.

The morning sky was changing, going from a deep blue to that kind of in-between pink color. JD watched morosely as a flock of birds flew past the window and up into the red-tinged clouds, and was ashamed at the tears that stung his eyes. _I want to go with you._ He remembered Tims, and glanced over in the other’s direction before looking down, and shaking his head in despair.

“I’m okay,” he said in a shaky voice, trying hard not to listen to the distant sounds of a battle that was happening without him. Then he added in a soft whisper, “You wouldn’t understand.”

  
  


Concho and Durning cut around the back way, behind the buildings and the fences, until at last they found themselves behind the large building that stood next to the white-boarded church. Through the swirling dust and fighting men, Durning saw that there were two guards at the church’s door, and another two at the set of angled, ground-level doors that led to the cellar.

“She’s in there?” Concho asked, wheezing a bit as he spoke.

Durning nodded.

“How’re we gonna get her?” Billings asked, his eyes wide.

Concho looked at Durning questioningly, but the businessman smiled and held up a finger. “Watch me.”

  
  


Josiah reloaded his gun, leaned out of the alleyway and fired. The outlaws were starting to panic now, some of them riding back down the street, some surrendering, still others rushing headlong into the soldiers in a mad break for freedom, only to be cut down. Josiah saw the carnage, shook his head at the memories it invoked. Too much of this. Gotta be an end to it, someday.

He looked across the alley, saw Nathan bending over Vin again, asking him something. Vin was shaking his head, trying to get to his feet, and Nathan was gently - but insistently - setting him back down again. Then the healer ducked his head out of the alley, quickly, then brought it back, and Josiah saw his gun was out, and ready.

The soldiers were winning, it looked like, and now they were starting to press forward, herding the outlaws down the street. Josiah took a step out of the alley, looked down a ways and saw many men, soldiers and outlaws, lying bleeding and dead in the dirt street and along the boardwalks. He shook his head, knew that even when the day was won, there would be a lot for Four Corners to recover from. A lot of souls to pray for...

The soldiers pushed the outlaws beyond the alley Josiah was sheltering in, and quickly he mounted his horse and trotted out of the enclosure to help them. But first...Josiah guided his horse quickly to where Nathan and Vin were. “You boys doin’okay?”

Vin glanced up at Josiah, fought to rise. “I’m fine - ”

“The hell you are,” Nathan said, once more fixing Vin to the ground with his hand. Looking up at Josiah the healer said, “He’ll be all right, bullet grazed his scalp. He done lost a lot of blood, though. You goin’ to help the soldiers?”

Josiah nodded.

“We’ll be along,” Vin said firmly, and the look in his eye told Josiah he was sure going to try.

Josiah looked at Nathan, who just shrugged and shook his head. You might as well argue with the wind. With a final tug at his hat, Josiah whirled his horse around and trotted after the cascading dust cloud of soldiers and outlaws that was steadily moving back down the street.

  
  


JD sighed and rested his good arm on the windowsill, gazing sadly out into the street. There were still a few outlaws scattering through the streets, soldiers right behind them, but for the most part the battle was over, at least where they were. He suddenly felt exhausted, like he could sleep forever, and was trying to think of a way to ask Tims to get him back to bed without completely embarrassing himself when suddenly something caught his eye, and he looked down.

Someone was walking toward the church, no, running toward it, his arms up high and yelling something JD couldn’t make out. A civilian? JD supposed so, but weren’t they all in the basement already?

He looked over at Tims, who was reloading his revolver, and said, “Hey.”

“Hm?” Tims looked up.

JD pointed his gun out the window. “Look at that.”

Tims came to stand behind JD, and immediately yelped. “My God!”

JD started a little, blinked in confusion. “What? What?”

Tims shook his head and aimed his gun at the figure now in front of the church. “I know that man, his name is Durning. He’s with Concho Charles.”

“Oh!” JD sat up a little straighter, felt his heart start to beat again as he peered at the stout man in the business suit. “What’s he doing?”

Tims frowned and steadied his aim. “Whatever it is, it’s not good. Trust me.”

  
  


The tall, dark-haired soldier eyed Durning as he came running across the street, his arms up, his face white with fear.

“Let me in!” Durning shrieked as he ran up to the stairs.

The soldiers both immediately dropped their rifles to a challenging stance. The dark-haired soldier said, “Who are you?”

Durning looked around in a terrified way, “I’m a civilian, dammit! Please, you gotta let me in, I’ll get killed!”

“Geez,” the other soldier shook his head in amazement. “Why didn’t you stay home, mister? Don’t you have no place to hide there? This is for the women and children.”

Durning thought quick. “I was home, but the outlaws came and ran me out. I didn’t know where else to go.”

The soldiers looked at each other. The dark-haired one shrugged, and began walking back to the two men guarding the cellar entrance. Durning was right on his heels, smiling to himself.

  
  


“He’s going to the cellar,” JD said in a bewildered voice.

Tims peered over JD’s shoulder, then suddenly drew in his breath and said, “Shit!” and pointed downward with his gun.

JD followed his indication, and saw below them, hidden from the soldiers behind a building, a dark-clad man and several others, all with their guns out and looking dangerous.

“Concho Charles,” Tims said in a way that made JD look at him in mild surprise. Tims then looked up at where the soldier was walking with his former partner and said, “Durning’s helping him get to the civilians.”

JD gasped and took quick aim with his Colt at the dark-clad man below them, and pulled the trigger.

Durning was humming to himself, waiting for the soldier to open the door, when suddenly he heard a shot ring out, then another one. The soldiers heard it too, and looked to see where it came from. And then Durning saw three things at once.

Concho and his men, ducking and aiming their guns at something above them.

A small crowd of outlaws and soldiers, appearing at the end of the street far away but definitely heading toward them.

And, lastly, in the second-story window of a building across the street, a sight that made him red-hot with anger and thwarted greed.

Tims.

“Shit,” one of the soldiers said as he hoisted his rifle and aimed it at Concho. Taking a deep breath he called out, “You over there! Drop the gun!”

Concho’s head whipped around, and quick as lightning he fired his gun, and the soldier dropped down dead.

“Oh, crap,” Durning muttered, and fell to his knees in front of the cellar door as the soldiers all dropped to one knee and opened fire.

  
  


Mary gripped Gloria’s arm as they both heard the nearness of the gunfire above them. The townspeople began muttering fearfully, and quickly Dwight made his way to the stairway that led outside, his gun at his shoulder and ready to fire.

“Now, calm down, everybody,” he said in a commanding tone as he stood at the bottom of the cold stone stairs. “Just stay calm...”

More gunshots. A loud thud against the door.

A few people let out small screams. Mary glanced over and noticed the two Mexican girls clinging to each other tightly.

Dwight put out a quieting hand, then turned back to the door and balanced his shotgun in both hands, squared his shoulders, and waited.

  
  


Buck trotted easily along the rooftops, Ezra at his side, his keen eyes widening at the sight just ahead of them. The outlaws were clearly in retreat, some running and some being pushed back into the town by the advancing soldiers. The street was thick with dust and smoke, so thick it was making it a little hard to breathe, but Buck was satisfied as he covered the judge’s approach to the melee. Soon, it would be all over. Everything was going to be all -

Suddenly gunfire erupted, off to his right. Ezra heard it too, and his head whipped up and he said urgently, “The church.”

Buck’s elation screeched to a halt. The gunfire continued. He took two quick steps to the right, two more. Far down the street, he could see small shadows against the white walls of the church, dark shadows that were firing, standing, falling -

Buck looked down into the street. Travis had heard it too, was wheeling his horse about with an infuriated look on his face. The soldiers with him fanned out, trapping the outlaws between them and the soldiers behind, and held them there. Quickly, Travis began to trot his horse back toward the church, hoisting his shotgun on his hip as he went.

“Shit!” Buck breathed, and with Ezra right behind him turned on his heel ran back toward the church as fast as he could.

  
  


JD ducked back into the window as several shots splintered the frame around him. Tims leaned out of the other window, but the view wasn’t as good and he grunted in frustration.

“He’s not giving up,” Tims observed as he squeezed off another shot, hoping to hit something.

“I know!” JD replied as he heaved himself back to the torn-up windowsill. Glancing quickly at the church, he saw that the businessman Tims knew, Durning, was reaching over one of the dead soldiers for his rifle.

“Does that Durning guy know how to shoot a gun?” JD asked as he aimed his pistol at the outlaws again, and fired.

Tims shrugged. “I don’t know.”

JD pushed himself back from the sill a bit, and shook his head. “I think we’re about to find out.”

  
  


Durning fumbled with the dead soldier’s rifle, so mad his hands were shaking as he cocked the hammer back.

“God-damn Tims,” he muttered to himself as he ducked his head down from all the flying lead. “God-damn, no good, squealing piece of shit - ”

He looked up, saw that the soldiers were mostly dead, except for one standing just in front of him, the dark-haired soldier from before. Concho was still behind the building, but only two of his men were down. They were almost there.

With a satisfied smirk, Durning aimed the rifle at the soldier’s back and fired.

  
  


Tims gaped at what he had seen. JD had seen it too, and gasped out, “He just shot that man in the back!”

“Jesus,” Tims whispered, but then saw that Concho and his men were making their way across the street. Steadily aiming, he fired a shot, brought the large man on the right down.

“Can you get Concho?” he asked JD just as a bullet smashed into the frame behind his head.

JD aimed, shook his head. “There’s a couple of guys in the way. Damn!”

Then he saw Durning raise the rifle, and jumped back from the windowsill right before a bullet whizzed past his ear.

  
  


“Open the door!” Concho commanded as he crouched toward the church, one eye on the rapidly advancing soldiers coming down the street.

Durning nodded, pulling at the cellar door, but it didn’t budge. “Shit, it’s still locked!”

Concho cursed, fired at the doors with his gun. The doorhandles flew apart, and Durning heard muffled screams inside.

“Now they’ll open.” Concho smiled grimly, just as a bullet struck the dirt in front of him. Looking up quickly, he saw one of the hired guns standing on a roof some distance away. Firing blindly, he dashed behind the church and hissed at Durning, “Take care of those snipers, will you!”

Durning glared up at the second-story window and getting to his feet growled, “Thought you’d never ask.”

  
  


Several women in the basement screamed as the horribly loud gunshot blew the locks off the cellar doors.

“Everybody get back!” Dwight called out, and aimed his shotgun at the splintered doors as they were torn open by unseen hands.

Mary had made her way over Emmie, was sitting down next to her when sudden early-morning daylight came into the cellar. Everyone gasped, squinted at the unaccustomed light, some shading their eyes against the glare, others turning away and shrinking back.

An dark shape appeared, its shadow zigzagging down the stairs. Dwight called out, “Stop right there!” and hefted the shotgun.

A huge explosion of noise, so loud Mary cried out and covered her ears. When she looked up, Dwight was lying on the floor, not dead but clutching his upper chest, and in the slanting, weak light Mary saw blood glistening on his hand, on the floor.

The dark shape came down the stairs, hunched over and growling. The townspeople pressed backwards, until they were all jammed at one end of the room, almost suffocating themselves in panic.

“I want Mary Travis,” the man snarled, leveling his gun at the crowd, who gasped as a group and shrank back even further. “Mary Travis, and I’ll let the rest of you go.”

Mary felt a hand press her shoulder, knew it was Gloria, looked up and saw her friend’s face tight with warning: stay quiet.

No one moved for a moment, frozen statues in the too-bright light. Growling impatiently, the man plunged into the group, pulled someone out and started dragging them to the stairs.

Mary saw who it was, and shot to her feet. The Mexican girl, Maria.

The girl was squirming in Concho’s iron grip, whimpered with childish fright. The other girl jumped forward to her friend’s rescue; Concho swung his gun into her head, and she fell to the floor senseless.

A few of the men rushed forward to try and wrest the girl away, but with a rough yell Concho raised his gun and fired, once, twice, and Mary saw the men fall next to Dwight, writhing in pain. No, her mind screamed as she shook off Gloria’s tight grip, I can’t let this happen -

  
  


JD’s face went pale as he saw Concho run into the basement. “We gotta help them!” he yelped, desperate with helplessness.

Tims reloaded his gun, nodded even though his face was even paler than JD’s. “I - I guess I’ll see what I can do. You gonna be okay by yourself?”

JD turned to him, managed a halfway cocky grin and nodded, flipping his wayward hair out of his eyes.

Tims smiled back, marveling to himself at this boy’s spirit as he stood and went to the door. He wouldn’t be doing half as well. _Nope._ He reached for the handle. _I’d probably be -_

Suddenly the door jerked open beneath his hand, slamming Tims backwards across the floor. Dazed, he shook his head and looked up.

Durning grinned down at him, and wordlessly raised his gun.

  
  


Maria screamed in terror as Concho dragged her up the staircase. As soon as he hit the top of the stairs, the outlaw turned around and struck her in the face.

“Shuttup!” he growled, then turned to his henchmen, who were looking around the corner of the church. “Well?”

“They got ‘em trapped,” Billings said glumly. “And those hired guns are still on the roof.”

“Shit!” Concho spat on the ground, ignoring Maria’s whimpering. “The judge?”

Billings looked back around the corner. “He’s comin’ this way.”

Concho made a low, inarticulate sound, clutched Maria tighter, glanced to the second-story window and grinned to himself. The boy was looking away from him, into the room, probably at that idiot Durning. Well, that out-of-towner was good for something after all. Yes, good for...

...a distraction.

With deliberate calmness, Concho raised his gun and aimed for the back of JD’s head.

  
  


Tims gaped at his former business partner, who was towering over him, gun pointed straight at his face. He couldn’t move; he felt oddly frozen.

“You rat,” Durning growled. “You little sneaking rat - ”

JD coughed, raised his gun and said in his most serious tones, “Hey! Drop the gun!”

Durning looked at him and laughed. “What’ll you do if I don’t, gimp? Come over and take it from me?”

JD’s aim didn’t waver, and he shook his head, his bruised and cut face deadly grim. “Don’t make me, mister.”

“Aaah.” Durning cocked his pistol, aimed it casually at Tims’ heart.

JD fired.

Durning yowled, staggered backwards, blood spurting from the wound in his arm. Tims gasped as the blood sprayed onto him, onto his face and clothes.

“You little punk!” Durning roared, staggering forward to where JD was sitting. With a yell, Tims jumped up and grabbed Durning from behind, but not before the larger man had reached the windowsill and grabbed for JD’s collar, fully intending to smash the youth’s brains on the wooden floor. JD fired again, but the shot went wide, and an instant later Durning had him by the neck and yanked him upward.

And just as suddenly, JD felt a sharp sting in his right ear and glanced up to see Durning’s face change from enraged to surprised. He staggered forward, one step, two, JD still in his grip, then clutched at his chest and groaned. Then JD noticed the spreading welt of blood on Durning’s front, felt himself being leaned backward, and realized with horror that his attacker was falling toward the open window, and he was falling with him.

There was a terrible, unbalanced moment in which JD could feel himself being tilted away from the floor, tangled in Durning’s grip as the dying businessman leaned out over the street two floors beneath them. Oh my God, JD thought frantically, and then -

\- then someone grabbed his waist, yanked him away as Durning spilled out the window, and pulled him to the floor. JD landed with a painful thump, gasped in shock and looked at the sill just in time to see Durning tumble out the opening, and he and Tims traded looks of sickened amazement as they heard the businessman’s body hit the ground, two stories below.

Tims was shaking, but his expression was concerned as he looked at JD. “You okay?”

JD nodded. “You?”

Tims checked himself. “Yeah, I guess...”

JD took a shaky breath, let it out, looked toward the open window. “You’re a pretty good shot.”

Tims cocked his head. “That wasn’t me. I was trying to get him off you. He must have been shot by somebody in the street.”

JD leaned back against the wall, winced. He ached all over.

Tims looked at him again. “Hey, you got blood going down your neck. Are you sure you’re okay?”

At that moment JD’s right ear started to smart something awful, and he put his hand up, felt a painful cut there. He winced again, brought his hand away, saw the blood.

“Huh,” JD said half to himself, idly rubbing the blood between his fingers. Somebody outside shot him. Huh.

Tims stood up a little, stuck his head out of the window to peer dispassionately at the

body of his onetime partner and would-be murderer, lying twisted and dead two stories under their feet. Shaking his head as he leaned back inside, Tims collected his gun from the floor and sighed, “Well...I hope he thought it was worth it.”

  
  


  
  


“God damn it,” Concho growled to himself when he saw that the boy had been yanked from the window, and by that fool Durning no less. Well, Durning had paid for his stupidity. And now Concho knew he had one less pawn to play.

Billings was shaking his head. “We gotta do something, boss. That judge is getting pretty close, and there are more soldiers comin’.”

“All right.” Concho hefted Maria to his side, clapped a hand over her mouth so she couldn’t scream. The girl was rigid with fright, and struggled weakly in his strong grip.

Billings looked at her skeptically. “Hey, that ain’t Mary Travis, is it?”

Concho shook his head. “She’ll do, though. Come on.”

And they began to move against the wall of the church, into the street and the freedom that waited beyond.

  
  



	15. Chapter 15

In the basement, the townspeople were cowering in terror, a few trying to help the injured men on the floor, but most simply dazed and unmoving in the light that was flooding now, unheeded, stark and morning-bright into the cellar room. The other Mexican girl, Rita, was coming to in a townswoman’s arms and calling out weakly for her friend. There were no soldiers, and no one else to guard them. They had been abandoned.

In the back of the room, Mary was tugging frantically, trying to wrest herself from Gloria’s grip.

“Let me go, damn it!” she cried. “He wants me, not that little girl. I can’t let him - ”

Gloria’s grip didn’t lessen. Others were turning to face Mary, and she saw the same thing in their eyes as her friend’s as Gloria said, “Mary, don’t make it worse. He’ll kill you, you know he will. He wants you to make sure he can get away, and if he gets away he’ll come back.”

“But that poor girl - ” Mary sobbed, feeling the ground sway under her feet. This couldn’t be happening...

Emmie was there, patting Mary’s other shoulder and saying, “She’ll be all right, Mary, maybe Concho won’t hurt her. But he’d hurt you - ”

Mary shook her head, what were these people saying? She had to go, she had to -

What were they going to do?

Suddenly another shadow filled the cellar opening, and everyone screamed and cringed away from the door.

The figure took a few steps in, a tall man with broad shoulders and covered with dust. He was panting, as if he’d come there in a hurry, and as soon as he saw the panic on the peoples’ faces he crouched down and put his hands out. No gun, Mary saw from her spot in the back. And as soon as he saw the wounded men on the floor, the figure knelt down and spoke.

“Mother of God,” he said softly, and Mary thought she heard a bit of an accent. She heard it even more when the man lifted up his head and said, “Don’t be afraid, folks. M’name’s Darcy Thomas, I’m a friend. Anyone here have some clean handkerchiefs?”

There were murmurs, a few of the townspeople dug in their pockets. Someone spoke up, “How do we know you’re a friend? You might be one of Concho’s men!”

Darcy winced in irritation. “Oh, for the love of pete, man! I’ve just ridden like the divvil himself was on me tail to get here, and that’s all ye have to say to me?” Someone held out a white square of cloth, and Darcy accepted it. “Ah, thank ye, dear.”

Mary shook herself free of Gloria’s grip, took a few staggering steps forward as Darcy pressed the handkerchief to Dwight’s shoulder. He glanced up at her, and she noticed his kind eyes.

“Please,” She said desperately, “You’ve got to take me out there. Concho has that girl, he really wants me. I’m Mary Travis, the - ”

Darcy’s eyebrows shot up. “Ye’re Mary Travis?”

Mary blinked, taken a little aback. “Yes, and I have to - ”

“Don’t listen to her!” Gloria called out from the back, and several voices assented. “She’ll get killed.”

Darcy motioned for Mary to come down to the floor, and she knelt down next to him as he tended to Dwight.

“Here, hold that,” Darcy said softly. Confused, Mary complied, and Darcy took a breath and said, “Now, Mary, I’m sure ye’re as brave as anything, but there’s no need to worry, or put yerself in danger. I’ve brought someone with me, and he’ll make sure the girl comes to no harm.”

Mary felt Dwight stir beneath her, but could not take her eyes off this confident stranger. “You’ve brought someone? What do you mean? Who?”

Darcy looked up at her, and smiled. “A friend. A penitent friend.”

  
  


Ezra squinted at the church, tried to see around it, but from that vantage point he couldn’t see anything. He kept his gun pointed, just in case. There were bodies of dead and wounded soldiers everywhere, and he knew that something very dangerous was likely happening, but he and Buck had only just arrived, and although they had taken shots at the outlaws as they ran from the building to the church, they had no idea what had happened next.

Ezra glanced below him. The outlaws were still trapped, soldiers hemming them in on both sides, but they had seen the uncertain look on Travis’ face, and their mood was less subdued, and more expectant. Ezra saw Josiah, behind the outlaws, and acknowledged him with his gun. The preacher returned the salute, but he looked tired.

Buck saw Josiah too, glanced behind him. “Where’s Nathan and Vin?”

Ezra peered down the road, shook his head with an unreadable expression on his face. He felt drained, spent. The outlaws were penned up below them, but they didn’t look like they were ready to give up yet, and both men knew it. Knew it, and were alert.

Several soldiers had dismounted and were running toward the church, their guns drawn, and at that moment Ezra and Buck saw a dark shape edge its way from around the corner of the church. The shape seemed to have four legs, and when Ezra realized why, he breathed a soft curse.

Buck did the same, and held up his gun.

Concho grinned in the early morning sunlight, the barrel of his gun pressed firmly against the Mexican girl’s throat. At the sight of him, every gun barrel leveled, every sight beaded, but the outlaw stood in the middle of the dusty street and laughed as his henchmen gathered around him.

Orin brought his horse forward, slowly, stopped when he saw Concho press the barrel tighter. He leveled his own shotgun and said in a steady voice, “Let her go.”

Concho laughed again, and shook his head. “Sorry, judge, I don’t think that’s going to happen. I think instead you’re going to let my men go, and watch us ride out of here. Or else this pretty maid is only the first to die.”

Buck bit his lip. Ezra glanced at him, knew his friend was fighting the urge to whip up his rifle and blow the bastard’s head off. But the outlaws were all around them, watching their every move...

Orin cocked his head, eyed Concho as if he were a rattlesnake. “You must think I’m a fool to even consider letting your men go. Some of them are wanted for murder, including you. You’ve got a couple of dozen rifles aimed at your head right now, son. Make it easy on yourself, and give up.”

Concho laughed again, wrenched his arm around Maria’s neck. The girl gasped, loud enough for Buck and Ezra to hear it from their vantage point on the roof.

“You are a fool, judge,” he taunted. “To think I don’t know I have nothing to lose. Go ahead, shoot me. You’ll hit her too, and she’ll die, I guarantee it. And then my men will start gunning down the good citizens in the basement. But all you have to do is let my men go, and we’ll never bother you or your pretty little daughter-in-law again.”

The outlaws trapped between the rows of soldiers looked at each other with anxious, but hopeful eyes. Buck’s gaze glanced over them, and his shoulders tensed; his eyes met Josiah’s, and they were both thinking the same thing: this can’t help but end badly...

Orin’s gaze was hard as a rock as he stared at Concho and shook his head slowly. “Give up your gun now, or you’ll be responsible for a bloodbath.”

“Like I care,” Concho sneered as he began to back toward the front door of the church, dragging Maria with him. His henchmen walked with him, their guns aimed in every direction to prevent an attack.

Buck shook his head, looked at Ezra doubtfully. Stalemate.

  
  


At Nathan’s window, JD sighed in frustration as he tried to get a bead on Concho. His ear was smarting, distracting him, but he fought the annoyance and took a deep breath, trying to concentrate. Beside him, Tims crouched at the sill, and cursed himself that he wasn’t a better shot.

“Can you get him?” Tims whispered anxiously.

JD took another breath, shook his head in aggravation. One of the outlaws saw him aiming his gun, and JD suddenly drew in his breath and hissed, “Duck!”

  
  


Buck gasped as the outlaw to Concho’s left jerked up his gun and fired off a shot. Everyone jumped, but Ezra heard the sound of splintering wood and said quickly, “He’s all right, Buck.”

Buck tried to calm his nerves, shook his head and caught Josiah’s steadying gaze from below. Gripping his gun he whispered, “God damn.”

Ezra edged closer, watched warily as Concho climbed one step, then the next. His back was now to the door, and he grinned widely as he hit the top of the stairs. His cohorts fanned out, and for a moment everything stopped.

Everything stopped, and grew quiet. No one moved, or spoke. In the quiet, Buck heard a sound to his left and saw two people moving down the street toward them, one supporting the other.

Vin. And Nathan.

He peered closer, saw that Vin’s coat was spattered with blood, felt his heart sink. Nathan looked like he was trying to get Vin to sit down, or at least slow down, but of course the tracker was having none of it. His gun was out and ready, but Buck noticed that one hand was touching the wall every few feet, seeking its support. Buck turned his head, slowly so the outlaws wouldn’t see his movement, and he looked over at Ezra, saw the surprised dismay in the gambler’s eyes at Vin’s injury. They both seemed to be thinking the same thing: Vin too? How many more would they lose?

Vin made it to just beyond where Josiah and the soldiers were, stopped opposite Buck and Ezra. He looked up, saw them, managed a tight nod of greeting, then turned his eyes to the church, and the danger there. Nathan saw it too, and froze.

Their approach had made some of the soldiers’ horses skittish, and they stamped their hooves and blew their frustration. The outlaws on the church steps saw this, and their guns bristled in every direction, ready to shoot and be shot.

Concho nodded to himself, and jabbed the barrel of his gun into Maria’s neck. Jerking his chin at the judge he called out, “Come on, judge, let my men go. It should be obvious - you have no choice.”

Orin ducked his head down, and Buck drew in his breath. He knew what the next order would be, knew that Maria was about to die. It had to be - Orin would never let Concho go, and there was no way to rescue Maria, or any of the townspeople if Concho’s men got to the cellar first. They were stuck.

Stalemate.

  
  


Everyone in the cellar was still, shocked into silence. No one dared to breathe; they had all heard Concho’s words, and they all thought they were going to die.

Mary sat by Darcy’s side, trying to help but unable to concentrate. For the past few minutes she’d heard footsteps above their heads; they’d all heard it, footsteps in the church. Someone was inside the church, probably Concho or his gang. They could hole themselves up in there for days, maybe weeks. Hold them all hostage. Kill them, one by one...

Everyone was stiff with fear. Everyone, Mary noticed, except for the Irishman Darcy Thomas, who was still working on Dwight’s shoulder. _He must be a doctor._ Mary watched him expertly tend to the wound. Gloria tiptoed up, sat down next to Mary and squeezed her arm reassuringly. Mary felt a little better, until she looked at her friend’s face. It was pale with fear.

But Darcy didn't seem to be sensing the fear that was threatening to eat away at Mary’s sanity. He looked up, gave her a gentle smile and touched her arm. “Courage.”

Mary blinked, looked at him stupefied. The man looked utterly calm. How did he do it?

Astonished, Mary leaned forward and whispered, “Mr. Thomas, you must have heard what Concho Charles said.”

“Oh, aye, I did.” Darcy nodded, looking down at Dwight’s torn shoulder and tending to it carefully. “But he won’t get what he wants. Me friend will see to that.”

“I don’t understand,” Mary said in quiet, but unnerved tones. “Whoever your friend is, he’s no match for Concho Charles. I hope for his sake he finds a safe place to hide himself.”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” Darcy said lightly, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he looked up at her. “I think Mr. Larabee’s through with hiding. I think - now - that he’s ready to fight.”

Mary’s eyes widened, and she heard Gloria gasp. Another footstep over their heads, heavy and determined. _Oh, my God._ Her mind went numb with realization.

_Oh my God._

  
  


Buck hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he began to feel dizzy. He breathed out, slowly, felt the gun getting sweaty in his hands, didn’t know what they were going to do. His eyes flicked to Ezra, whose face was tense and knotted in the early morning light; to Josiah below them, and Vin and Nathan, in the shadows of the boardwalk. Their guns were all up, but they couldn’t shoot. And JD, what was he doing? Buck cursed that he couldn’t see the boy, but prayed that he hadn’t gotten shot, and that he’d know enough to keep his head down. God, let this nightmare be over soon. I want my life back, if you don’t mind.

Concho seemed to sense that Orin was about to order his execution, squeezed Maria’s neck so tight she squealed.

“Don’t be an idiot, Travis!” Concho called out, his voice dark and rough-edged. “This girl dies first, then it’s your daughter-in-law. Then I’ll send my men after that crippled child that used to be sheriff. You want that?”

Ezra’s hand shot out, grabbed Buck’s arm even as he took an instinctive step toward the edge of the roof. A warning look from those light green eyes: don’t.

Orin brought his head back, glanced to the sergeant at his left.

Buck felt a horrible ache between his shoulder blades, a tightness borne of dread. This was going to be tough to live through -

Concho saw Orin’s movement, cocked his head, thrust the barrel of the gun into Maria’s cheek. The girl sobbed, then started praying out loud, in Spanish.

Orin sighed, and Buck saw his shoulders sag. What could they do?

The soldiers’ guns came up.

Concho let out a barking laugh, brought the hammer back on his gun. “How ironic that we’re at a church, and there is no salvation! See you all in hell.“

Buck sucked in his breath, felt the whole world tilt for a split second -

And suddenly the doors of the church flew open, and Concho Charles was pushed head over heels into the dust below.

Buck started, surprised. He blinked, unsure for a moment what he was looking at. Then - oh, yes - someone had been standing inside the church, and had thrown the doors open. Maria was free, scrambling out of the way. Concho and his men were lying in a tangled heap, struggling to separate themselves, and Concho was reaching for Maria but someone was coming down the -

\- stairs -

A man dressed in black, his face grim and merciless as death, holding a shining silver gun -

Aimed at Concho’s heart. But it -

-it couldn’t be -

Ezra breathed first, his voice low and amazed. “Good Lord.”

Buck heard gasps all around him, mutterings of amazement. Orin was holding his hand out to still his men, his face a mask of surprise. Buck blinked again, looked down at Josiah, saw a slow smile of recognition cross the preacher’s features. Nathan’s mouth was hanging open; Vin was looking down, but then looked at Nathan as if to say, don’t that beat all?

Buck stared, still didn’t believe it, but it was true.

It was Chris.

  
  


JD gripped the window, unaware that he was suddenly breathing very fast. Tims had come over and was kneeling next to him, but JD didn’t look. He didn’t think he could move at all. He felt Tims’ hand on his arm, heard him ask, “Hey, you okay?”

JD blinked, shook the hair out of his eyes. He stared at Chris as if hypnotized, a million images and feelings rushing through him at once -

-darkness, pain, hitting and kicking -

JD gasped, and cringed back from the windowsill. He ran his unbound hand over his eyes, closed them for a moment...

\- slamming, brilliant bursts of agony, over and over -

Opened them again, felt faint, tried to shake it off. Cringed a little further.

Tims hurried over to the water basin, dipped a cloth into the cool liquid and brought it back. “Guess you’ve had a lot of excitement for one day, huh.”

JD accepted the cloth, felt foolish but couldn’t fight the surging memories -

It’s me, Chris. It’s me -

“I’ll...I’ll be all right,” JD said softly, and putting the cloth against his forehead, closed his eyes again and sighed.

“Okay.” Tims responded hopefully, patting JD on the back and looking out the window again. Curiosity got the better of him and he asked, “You know who that man in black is?”

JD nodded, suddenly found it very hard to breathe, and finally gasped, “That’s Chris. He...”

JD faltered, paused, stopped. He knew Tims was waiting for more, but it was so hard to speak. How could he explain to this stranger that he didn’t know what to say about Chris? Finally JD thought, that’s Chris, he used to lead us...

...he’s the best...

...he was my hero...

JD bent forward, closed his eyes for the briefest moments, felt tears coming and cursed them. Taking a deep, painful breath that racked his entire body, he said, “That’s Chris. He’s the one who did this to me.”

  
  


Chris stood as still as stone in the dusty street, his mind and soul and every part of him humming with urgency as his world narrowed around him.

He was back - home - and he could feel the shock in the air around him, almost hear the words, is that Chris Larabee? Good Lord - is that Chris?

But he couldn’t think about that. He had to focus, concentrate, and never mind the hate that was being sent his way, the crushing guilt he felt at knowing that he, through one drunken night’s tragic mistake, was responsible for everything that had happened since.

No. Chris tightened his grip on his gun, and looked down its barrel at the outlaws at his feet, and tunneled himself to be aware of only that moment.

He was back. And he had a job to do.

Concho snarled, swore as he heaved himself away from his henchmen and struggled to his feet. He got about halfway up before Chris growled, “Drop the gun.”

Concho stayed in the crouch, momentarily stunned. Then he looked at Chris and grinned, wincing as the wound in his side pained him.

“Larabee!” he spat derisively. His men were getting to their feet, eyeing Chris warily. Two of them ran, then another.

“Drop the gun,” Chris repeated, his voice strong as steel.

Concho straightened up, his smile thick and sneering. The men that still stood by Concho glared at Chris, fingered their guns. Only one of them remained on the ground, a blond-haired kid who was eyeing Chris with open terror. After a second the kid said, “Christ, boss, it’s - ”

“Shuttup, Billings,”Concho barked, not even looking at the youth. He shook his head at Chris and said, “You son of a bitch. I can’t believe you actually came back.”

Chris took another step closer, his blue eyes blazing. He leveled the gun at Concho’s head. “I mean it, mister.”

“Oh, I’ll just bet you do,” Concho said evenly as his henchmen closed in around him. Billings scrambled backwards a few inches, seemed to be waiting for an opportune time to bolt.

Glancing at Billings in irritation, Concho turned wondering eyes back to Chris and cocked his head. “Why did you come back, Larabee? The town’s a wreck, your men hate you. You crippled that boy for life. You want to shoot me? Go ahead. It won’t make you any less of a drunken thug than you are.”

Chris cocked the hammer of his gun, shook his head as the light early morning breeze tousled his blond hair. Concho went a little pale, his eyes flicked to the right, and with a quick lunge swept his arm down and caught Billings by the neck. The youth gurgled in surprise as Concho hauled him halfway up and jabbed the barrel of his gun into his yellow hair. Billings flailed in panic, but Concho smacked him with the gun and the boy tried to cringe away, kept in place only by the iron grip around his throat.

“Now,” Concho said in a calm, smooth voice, “you’re going to lower your gun and let me go, or I’ll scatter this kid’s brains from here to Kansas.”

Billings clawed at Concho’s arm, gasped, “Jesus, boss, what are you doing?!”

“Shuttup!” Concho snarled, and clubbed Billings again.

Chris’ arm never wavered, and he stared at Concho with open loathing. “Let him go.”

Concho laughed. “Don’t give me that look, Larabee, you crippled one of your own men, remember? Don’t think you’re any better than me.”

  
  


Buck watched the scene from the rooftop, his breath in his throat. Had time stopped? The daylight was a little brighter, but it felt like it had been the same minute for hours, days. He thought maybe Chris would get Concho, but now the outlaw had that kid by the neck, and it was a stalemate again. If only he didn’t have those other men around him, Buck thought in frustration, I could get a clear shot...

Wait.

They aren’t looking at us anymore. They’re all looking at Chris.

Buck lifted his shotgun, very steadily and slow so as not to attract the outlaws’ attention. Ezra’s head turned, just a little, and as if he was reading Buck’s mind the gambler brought his gun up too, very deliberately, until he was aimed at the outlaw that was covering Concho’s right. None of the outlaws had noticed.

In the street, Josiah was watching Chris and Concho in amazement, stunned into disbelief that Chris had not only returned, but was facing down the town’s worst enemy. None of the soldiers had moved, Orin hadn’t moved, so when Josiah saw a small motion to his upper right his eye followed, and he saw what Buck and Ezra were doing.

And slowly lifted his gun as well.

Vin had slumped against the wall of the building, pressing a cloth to his bleeding scalp and was staring at Chris and Concho with an almost dazed look on his face. Nathan had one hand on him, which Vin was ignoring, and when he noticed Josiah’s movement the healer reached into his holster and withdrew his gun, very slowly.

Vin gave him a quizzical look, then started to raise his gun too. Smiling a little, he whispered, “They ain’t seen us yet.”

Nathan frowned at the shakiness of Vin’s gun hand, said in a low voice, “Put that thing down. You’re gonna blow Josiah’s head off.”

Vin glanced at Nathan, and there was steely determination in those eyes as he replied quietly, “I got the one on the left.”

And suddenly, as if by magic, his hand lifted out straight and true, and steady as a rock.

  
  


JD took deep breaths, willed his nerves back to steadiness as he stared at the floor. You big baby, that’s all over now, Chris isn’t going to hurt you again. Even if he tried -

Another deep breath, easy now...

\- Even if he tried, the others would stop him. It’s over, over, they need you now, grow up for heaven’s sake and get back to that window.

But it was so close, no matter how he tried, he still felt Chris’ fists breaking his ribs, still heard that drunken laugh as he was punched, and kicked, and thrown, again and again, until he couldn’t think, or remember, or walk -

\- and by Chris. By Chris...

JD blinked, felt the cool cloth on his neck and looked at Tims, who was peering out the window. “What’s going on?”

Tims shook his head. “It’s bad. Concho’s got some kid by the neck, one of his gang.”

JD’s jaw dropped. He lifted himself back to the window, saw Concho standing in the middle of a protective circle of men, his gun barrel to the head of - JD couldn’t see who, but whoever it was they were kicking and fighting, but not breaking free. Chris stood two feet away, his gun leveled but not firing, his black duster fanning faintly in the morning breeze. JD fought his lightheadedness, tried not to relive that nightmare night, but it was so hard. So hard...

“Oh, shit,” JD breathed.

Tims nodded fearfully. “You said it.”

Through the mass of men, JD saw Concho’s hostage kick again, and in an instant Concho raised his hand and slammed his gunbutt against the side of the boy’s head.

And JD felt it, felt it again, hard brick against his temple, and suddenly he was slipping into that night again, that horrible endless night, and Chris wasn’t moving, wasn’t saving the boy, just like he didn’t save me, didn’t help me, didn’t stop, just kept hitting and kicking and laughing, laughing , _laughing_ -

JD hissed, and grabbed the windowsill in shock. “That bastard. That bastard.”

Tims nodded in agreement, turned his eyes to the knot of outlaws below them. “Yeah, he’s...” He glanced back at JD, and stopped.

The youth’s eyes were hazel fire, and his gun was gripped in one white-knuckled hand as he brought it up to the windowsill and aimed it swiftly. He made a small, inarticulate snarling noise, and at that moment Tim’s budding experience let him see that JD’s gun wasn’t aimed at Concho Charles.

It was aimed at Chris.

  
  


Concho took a step backward, ignoring Billings’ pained whimpers as he sneered, “Give up the lawman act, Larabee. Kill me and ten more will take my place, and it’ll just be you in this pathetic pile, alone and drunk. You’ll be dead inside of a month.”

Chris glared at him. Didn’t move.

Concho cocked his head, gave Chris a knowing smile. “Hey, why not join my gang? You’ve got nothing left here. We can use a mean bastard like you.”

Chris’ eyes narrowed. “I’d never run with scum like you.”

Concho threw his head back and laughed. “Scum like me? Larabee, you crippled one of your own men! You are scum like me.” His face grew serious. “You’ve been gone, Larabee, you don’t know how this town’s turned against you. Stay here, and you’ll rot in jail, or get lynched. Run with me, and I can promise you the time of your life. Or - ” He jammed the gun harder against Billings’ temple, and the boy yelped. “You can try to stop me, and watch this kid’s head splatter all over this nice clean street. Your choice.”

  
  


JD felt himself falling, careening into a void of pure, raw hatred and anger. There was no thought there, just feeling, an overwhelming surge of relentless rage, and it felt good to just go with it, to not reason that after all, this man was your hero, and more than likely he was sorry, and maybe he can do something to make up for bashing you into a wall and crippling you and leaving you to die -

JD veered downward with his fury, let it sweep over him as he stared with vengeful eyes at the man in black below him. That son of a bitch, he made me lame. It’s all his fault, he’s got to pay, he’s got to pay, damn him, I trusted him, I looked up to him, he was my hero, and he hurt me -

JD’s soul roared its wounded agony, and through a haze of unreasoning hostility he took steady aim at the horrible, inhuman creature in black who had stolen his life and nearly killed him, and didn’t see Chris Larabee standing there at all...

  
  


Tims sat frozen, unsure what to do. JD’s eyes were glazed, almost unseeing, and he seemed to be lost in another world. Still the gun sat aimed in his trembling hand, and as JD stared wide-eyed at Chris, Tims became aware that he was speaking, in a voice so small and low the businessman could hardly hear him.

“How could he do that,” JD was whispering, his head shaking slowly in stunned shock. “How could he do that to me - that son of a bitch. That son of a... ” JD’s voice trailed off, so quiet it wasn’t even a whisper anymore.

Tims became alarmed, leaned close to JD but hesitated to do anything else. Clearing his throat uncertainly, he said, “Uh...uh, JD? I don’t think you want to do this...”

But JD was shaking his head, his eyes seeing some pain-filled hell Tims didn’t even want to know about. “You don’t understand,” he said in a voice that was edged with unshed tears. “He hurt me. He tried to kill me. I asked him to stop, begged him, and he - he - just -”

“But - but I’m sure he’s sorry.” Tims knew that sounded really stupid, but he didn’t want to grab for the gun, and couldn’t think of anything else to say. “And - and he came back, that’s something, isn’t it? I’m sure he’s sorry about what happened.”

JD’s eyes narrowed, the grip around the gun tightened. Oh crap, Tims thought in sudden fright. Now what do I do?

  
  


Buck held his breath, waited for some kind of signal he knew he wasn’t going to get. They all had to fire at the same time for this to work - including Chris. If any of Concho’s gang was still standing after the bullets flew, Chris would be dead, the blond kid would be dead, and probably the townspeople in the basement would get hurt too. This had to be timed perfectly to work -

-and there was no way to do it.

  
  


Chris stood motionless, his eyes burning as he held his gun straight out and aimed at Concho’s head. Billings stared at him, his eyes bulging as Concho further tightened his stranglehold. The boy looked to Chris for salvation, but Chris kept his gaze on Concho, his cool eyes not betraying the turmoil in his heart as he thought, that kid, he’s JD’s age, there’s blood in his hair and Concho would kill him to get free, would kill one of his own men and not feel it -

\- like me?

Chris caught Billings’ desperate, pleading eyes, looked away as they burned his memory. He’s JD’s age. I can’t let him die. Oh Christ. Drill the bastard - but I can’t get his men too, and the kid’ll probably die anyway, and the people in the cellar, and Mary - this has to stop.

Concho noticed Chris’ stillness, tilted his head in invitation. “Come on, Larabee, let’s blow this hick town. You tried the straight-and-true, but you’re a two-bit worthless drunk and you know it. So stop fighting it, and yourself. Your men hate you, the town wants you hanged. What choice have you got, when you think about it?”

Chris eyed him, let the words echo in his head, mix with images, feelings, uncalled-for memories of a drunken night, the wonderful feeling of release, fists bashing into yielding flesh, over and over...and racking guilt, awful pain, the lowest he’d ever felt.

It has to stop. It has to stop.

He held his gun out, slightly shook his head. Concho’s eyes narrowed, and he cocked the gun against Billings’ temple.

It has to stop...

  
  


Tims licked his lips, his eyes wavering from where Chris was holding Concho at bay, to the shivering boy at his side, whose white face and pale eyes hadn’t moved in nearly a minute, the grip on his Colt becoming so tight Tims saw his knuckles turning white and trembling. But he didn’t shoot.

Okay, I can do something, I’m sure I can. Geez, Tims, this is just about all your fault, if you hadn’t gone along when Durning said let’s break into the safe, this whole mess probably wouldn’t have happened...

JD made a small sound, and Tims glanced out of the window to see Chris’ arm move, a little. Smiling a little, Tims turned to JD and said, “See? Mr. Larabee’s going to save that kid, it’s going to be okay.”

  
  


JD blinked at Tim’s words, saw, but then he shook his head. No, it wasn’t going to be okay, because in his mind the attack was still happening, would maybe happen forever. Tims didn’t understand, Buck didn’t understand, maybe nobody did, but they didn’t live with it every time they closed their eyes, the pain and the fear and the knowledge that you were never going to get better, and now his attacker was back, Chris was back, and all JD could see when he looked at the man was a curtain of red, soul-searing red and midnight black, and all he could feel was the pain of the rest of his life, and it had to stop, dammit -

\- it had to stop -

JD let out a hitching breath, looked down the barrel of his gun. A demon was in his sights, the cause of all his pain and the town’s and Mary Travis’, and now it would stop -

\- now it -

JD blinked, took another breath, steadied his aim. He heard Tims next to him, but it was as if he was speaking in a dream, and JD ignored him. His finger tightened on the trigger.

\- but -

Chris hadn’t moved, was still as a statue, the black-clad bastard that hurt me, JD thought in ragged fury, his finger tightening a little more...

\- BUT -

Then Concho moved, took a few steps to Chris’ left. Chris turned a little to follow him with his gun, and now JD had a clear shot, a very clear shot -

\- at Chris Larabee’s back.

  
  


Tims saw JD freeze, blink in sudden indecision. The boy’s lips turned white, and his head jerked up as if he’d suddenly remembered something, or a lot of things. He slowly began to shake, all over.

Tims glanced out the window, saw only that Chris’ back was to them, leaned a little closer to JD. “Hey, kid? Can you hear me?”

  
  


JD’s breathing became swift and shallow, and his hazel eyes filling with tears. He stared at Chris for a moment, trembling as if he would fly apart -

\- you want to die young? Stay -

\- why don’t you go easy on the whiskey, son -

\- you don’t shoot nobody in the back -

Suddenly, with an anguished cry, JD lurched halfway out of the chair, lifted up his pistol and fired a shot into the clear blue sky.

  
  


Concho took in a sharp breath, his hand jerked -

\- Chris’ eyes blazed, brief blue fire -

\- a gunshot -

\- five more, all at once -

And Concho and his men fell down in the street, dead.

  
  


For a long, calm, still moment, no one moved. No one spoke. There was the rustle of early morning wind in the trees, and somewhere the birds were singing . All else was silence.

Chris stared, stared, couldn’t stop staring at the dead men at his feet, at the smoking gun still clutched in his hand. There was a horrible, loud rushing in his ears, like the world was crashing down on him, and mixed with that sound was the echo of another sound Chris had heard, just before Concho had pulled the trigger; a cry, a short wail of pain and despair that Chris recognized instantly, as if it had come from his own soul. It hung in the air still, as loud as thunder, rolling endlessly on, all of the misery and anguish and torment that Chris had felt, was still feeling, wrapped up in that one sob of torn hopes and shattered dreams.

JD’s voice. JD’s cry. Stabbing Chris like a nail to a cross, and paralyzing him.

Billings struggled to detach himself from the slain outlaw, finally flailed himself free and skittered away to be scooped up by a couple of soldiers that had dismounted to catch him. Billings let out a little whimper as they snagged his thin arms, but didn’t say a word.

Silence.

I’m home. Chris felt numb, detached, staring at Concho but not seeing him. There was a weight on his shoulders, a weight that had been there since that awful night nearly a week before but until now had only been mildly pressing on him. Now it felt like the world was on him, pushing him, suffocating him with its heaviness, and Chris thought again, I’m home. I’m back...

His eyes came up a little, distant and unfocused, and he saw the church. The early morning sun was just touching the rough bell tower, and Chris thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful. The memories started coming back, a dark night, rain and wind, the last time he’d been there, and the weight became greater on Chris’ shoulders, and this time he accepted it. _Let it come. I’m where I should be. I’m home._

Just then he saw a small movement at the corner of the church, saw a few people anxiously tiptoeing around the corner, then a few more. Then a small crowd, all hushed and frightened and so quiet that he could hear the soft movement of their shoes in the dirt road, the gentle swish of the womens’ taffeta skirts. And right at the front of the crowd was Mary Travis.

Chris swallowed hard, found himself unable at first to look directly at her. The gun in his hand felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, his whole body felt suddenly light and strange. Darcy was next to her, supporting a large man with dark hair and an injured shoulder, and Chris’ eyes went to him first, the one face he knew would be familiar, friendly. Darcy smiled at him, that small understanding smile, and as his mind went white with fear Chris took a deep breath, and forced himself to look into Mary’s eyes.

Amazement. Horror. Joy. The widest blue eyes Chris had ever seen, staring at him out of a face made pale by almost a week of tension and worry. Chris saw the fading bruises on her neck. _She looks like she’s been hurt._ His stomach lurched. _This is all my fault._

He heard Mary gasp when he looked at her, saw her take a step forward before Darcy made a soft sound, and stopped her. _Darcy knows._ Chris felt the weight press deeper. Not yet. Mary hesitated, stayed still, but her eyes reached out to him, all pain and confusion and some kind of powerful, overwhelming fear. But not hate, Chris realized with a start. My God. She doesn’t hate me...

Chris stared back at her, unable now to tear himself away from her gaze, but he knew he had to. The silence continued, and he felt eyes on his neck, and he knew what he would face when he turned around, to the people behind him. He glanced at the dead outlaws at his feet, knew that only six people could have accomplished what had happened.

They were behind him. He felt it, knew it as if by instinct. They were there.

And the time had come to face them.

Slowly, very slowly, Chris Larabee turned around, and looked at the men he’d betrayed.

He saw Buck first, standing some distance away on top of the roof of the jail, his shotgun grasped low on his hips, his body and face radiating tension and uncertainly. Next to him was Ezra, his rifle leaning against his waist, but with the same blank, doubting expression on his face. Chris’ eyes traveled downward, saw Josiah sitting in the line of soldiers, saw too that he was close enough to look into the preacher’s eyes, but found himself too frightened to linger on them; beyond them, on the wooden boardwalk, Chris saw two shadows, knew by their form he was looking at Nathan and Vin. Vin was leaning against the wall, his hand to his forehead, looked injured, and Chris felt a jab in his gut and he thought, shit. Shit. I can’t bear this.

But I have to. I have make things right.

There was one face that Chris didn’t see, couldn’t bring himself to look for. He guessed where it was, heard the shout come from his right as he faced Concho down. JD was in Nathan’s room, of course he would be, he was...he’d been badly...Chris shuddered, looked at the dust swirling at his feet, tried to will himself to face that window, look into those wounded hazel eyes and beg for the boy’s forgiveness. Do it, dammit, he ordered himself, it’s the only way...

But no. Chris felt as if something were breaking inside him, knew that if he saw those eyes, the hate he knew was there, he would die right there in the street, and he didn’t want to die. At that moment, Chris wanted to live, live and repair the damage he’d done. No, it wasn’t time. He hadn’t paid yet.

But he intended to.

Chris lifted his head slowly, rested his eyes on the man standing next to his horse, in front of the trapped outlaws. Judge Orin Travis.

Orin stared back, evenly and without a trace of recognition in his eyes. Steady and unmoving, like the Rock of Gilbraltar, and Chris stared back, gradually straightened his sloping shoulders and brought his head back. He moved then, quietly but resolutely, his steps crunching in the dirt and gravel and broken glass of the street. In the soft pink silence of the wakening dawn, Chris slowly approached Orin’s horse, his gun hanging low, his head up and back straight, his eyes full of the greatest sorrow and determination anyone present had ever seen. Buck stared at him. Ezra stared at him. Josiah, Nathan, and Vin, all stared as Chris silently walked up to Orin and, without saying a word, turned, walked to the jailhouse door, opened it and stepped inside.

Orin paused; then he turned in his saddle and looked at Josiah significantly, before dismounting and handing his reins to the nearest soldier. Josiah knew what he saw in the old man’s eyes, knew what had to happen now, and without a word he gave a small nod and slowly dismounted his horse, and looked soberly at Vin and Nathan. They nodded acknowledgement; they knew.

The battle with Concho was over.

Another battle was just beginning.


	16. Chapter 16

Mary watched from the church, awed by the completeness of the early morning silence, stunned by the simple tragedy of what was happening before her. It took her a moment to realize what was happening; she thought Orin would simply follow Chris into the jail, and that would be the end of it. But that was not what was happening.

Orin walked into the jail, his steps firm and quick, but Josiah was following him. No, wait. The preacher walked by the jail, on his way to somewhere else. Vin and Nathan, however, did walk toward the open door of the jail, pausing in the middle of the silent street to look up at Buck and Ezra, who without making a sound quietly stepped to the back of the roof and made their way down. Mary’s eyes followed the men, saw them enter the jail with a shiver of dread. _They’re going to accuse Chris._ She felt a raw ache inside her as she remembered what she’d seen in his eyes, when he looked at her - regret, despair, a sadness so numbing she wondered that Chris hadn’t died from it. Vin was going in now, his head ducked low, his shoulders slanted; Nathan was right behind him, one hand on Vin’s arm, a steadying presence. And a few moments later, Buck and Ezra appeared, their faces darker and frighteningly grim. They walked into the jail with agitated, angry strides, and Mary looked around, wondered where Josiah went, decided she must have missed his going in. The entire street was quiet, even though it was crowded with people. They were all watching the jail, and the effect was eerie, as if the entire town were holding its breath. Mary saw the jailhouse door close, wished she could do something. Sighed.

Then she heard another sound, a door opening, then closing again, frowned.

Nathan’s room.

She shivered again, and knew where Josiah had gone. Of course. And when he came back down he would use the back way so JD wouldn’t face the humiliation of being carried around in public like a child...

They would all be in the jail soon. All seven of them. Judge and jury, accuser and accused.

Together again.

Mary bit her lip, and felt like crying. She hugged herself, then sensed a presence and looked to her left. The Irishman, Darcy Thomas, was standing beside her, and as she looked at him he gave her a gentle smile.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Travis,” he said in his quiet Irish lilt. “Mr. Larabee’s quite all right. He’s where he’s supposed to be.”

Mary blinked, tried to compose herself in front of this charming but puzzling stranger. She knew she’d put the wall up too late, however. This Darcy had seen her concern, and there was no help for it. Sighing, she said, “I know, it’s just...”

“I know,” Darcy said sympathetically, his gaze wandering to the closed jailhouse door as his voice dropped to a whisper. “Ye saw his eyes.”

There was a tone in this man’s voice that struck Mary as familiar somehow, but she couldn’t quite place it. Looking at Darcy inquiringly, she said, “You said earlier, that you brought Chris here?”

Darcy looked down at the street, nodded.

“Brought him from where? Where did he go?”

Darcy paused, turned his head and met her eyes. Mary looked into them, at first only out of politeness, but then saw something there-

A memory, like a lightning bolt, long-ago words.

“ _Your friend Buck told me about your wife and son. I lost my husband too, I know what you’ve been through.”_

And the eyes...

“ _No, ma’am. You don’t.”_

And Darcy looked back down again, without saying a word. Mary saw her answer in his eyes, and didn’t say anything more for a moment, felt embarrassed. Finally she said in a soft voice, not taking her eyes from his face, “Well...thank you, Mr. Thomas, for getting him back safely. I don’t know how you found him, but - I was rather concerned, that he was out there without a friend. Thank you for helping him.”

“My pleasure, ma’am,” Darcy said, the same mild tones, his gaze on the street. “It was the least I could do, really. But - ” He said suddenly, in a slightly brighter voice, lifting his head up and smiling at her warmly, “Mr. Larabee did ask for my help in another matter, and I’m afraid I’ll be askin’ for yer indulgence in answerin’ a question of mine.”

Mary nodded, her eyebrows raised. Anything.

“Those gentlemen, that went in with our friend. Was there one among them that answered to the name of Buck Wilmington?”

  
  


When Josiah opened the door Nathan’s room was quiet -- very quiet. He looked around quickly, saw the open windows, the splintered window frames, and for an instant his heart jumped, but then his eyes traveled to where JD and Tims were sitting, underneath the front window. They both looked all right, and Josiah relaxed. Then he stepped in, looked closer, and began to worry again.

Tims was on his knees under the window, the chair JD had been sitting in tipped over and disregarded nearby. He looked up at Josiah, looked at him with a face full of frustration and anxiety. Next to him, JD sat against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest and his Colt still dangling from his good hand as it rested on his knee. His head was turned to the side, the healing bruise on his face huge and dark, his hazel eyes staring at nothing. Josiah drew in his breath when he saw the expression on the youth’s face: a blankness, an abandonment of feeling that made Josiah’s blood run cold. He took a deep breath, stepped closer, but JD didn’t move, only blinked slowly and let his black hair fall into his eyes as he stared at the wall in numb silence.

Tims stood up as Josiah approached, wiped his hands on his pants and sighed. Searching Josiah’s face for a moment, he stammered a bit and finally said, “That was - ”

Josiah put a hand up, cut him off, stared at JD in barest anxiety. “What happened?”

Tims paused, glanced at JD then back to Josiah before saying in a low voice, “I - I don’t know. We were shooting out the window, and then that man in black, Chris?”

Josiah’s eyes drifted to where JD was sitting, and he nodded.

Tims’ head came back. “Chris showed up, and JD kind of...well, I guess he kind of snapped or something. He just about shot him.”

Josiah stiffened, his eyes going wide as he stared at the stricken youth, at the hanging gun, at the overturned chair. My God. My God.

Tims looked down. “I - he changed his mind, obviously, but I think it - I think it hurt him, broke something somewhere, I don’t know. He’s just been sitting there, like that - ” Tims pointed rather obviously to where JD was slumped, but the youth didn’t look his way or acknowledge that he knew he was being talked about. His eyes stayed on the wall, distant and unfocused.

Josiah knelt in front of JD slowly, studied his pallid face with infinite concern. Tims tilted his head. “Is he gonna be okay? I mean, as far as...well, you know...”

Josiah looked up at Tims then, his face a map of earnestness. “Mr. Alderman, could you do me a favor?”

Tims nodded. “Sure.”

“There’s people outside, hurtin’ and needin’ lookin’ after. Why don’t you go report to one of the soldiers and see if there’s any way you can help. I’ll see what I can do here.”

Tims looked at JD, then back at Buck and nodded. “Yeah, sure. I, um, I hope you can help, I mean he seems like an all right kid.”

Josiah nodded, but didn’t look at Tims again, kept his eyes on JD. Tims paused, then biting his lip, he turned and hurried out the door, and once more the room was heavy with oppressive silence.

The birds sang for a few more moments, then Josiah quietly cleared his throat, gazed at that stunned face. “JD?”

He wasn’t expecting an answer really, was surprised when one came. But it was eerie, as if someone else were speaking in JD’s body, his voice was so dead and detached. “What?”

Josiah took another breath, suddenly thought of demons. “Son, it’s Josiah. It’s all over, you’re safe. You okay?”

Another long, slow blink, still staring at the wall. “My ear hurts.”

Josiah tilted his head, saw a few spots of blood on JD’s neck under his left ear, thought, now how did that happen? Slowly standing up, he went over to the basin and found a cloth soaking in it, wrung it out and brought it over to where JD was and gently laid it over his ear. “That help?”  
No reaction. JD didn’t wince, or bring up his hand, or anything. Just stared at the wall and gave a small shrug.

Josiah watched that quiet face for a long time, finally said, “Now I know you’re hurtin’, son, and I won’t make you go, but the judge has got Chris in the jail.”

JD’s eyes flickered, blinked once. “He does?”

Josiah nodded, leaning close so JD would know he was there, and protecting him. “Now like I said, you don’t have to be there, but the rest of us are in the jail with the judge and we’re going to see that justice is done for you. For the record, Chris don’t look like he’ll argue much with whatever the judge decides.”

The eyes flickered again, and JD’s face grew puzzled. He said in a dreamy voice, “I almost shot him, Josiah.”

Josiah looked down quickly, unprepared for the perplexed wonder in that injured face. Looking back up, he said, “I know, son, but you didn’t.”

“I saw him,” JD said in the same faraway tones, as if Josiah hadn’t said a word. “And - and I wanted him dead, Josiah.”

Josiah felt a chill, and looked at the floor.

JD started talking faster, his voice getting deeper and struggling. “It was like, like I couldn’t even think anymore, I just wanted him dead. He shouldn’t have hurt me, he shouldn’t have taken away my life just because he was drunk. He’s got to pay, Josiah, but I couldn’t kill him. I couldn’t - ”

JD’s eyes were becoming wild, bewildered, and Josiah put a steadying hand on that trembling arm. “Be at peace, JD. You did good, not taking a life out of anger. That’s not the way a man does things.”

JD leaned his head back against the wall, turned his face so he was once again staring at the wooden planks. He shook his head morosely and wiped his nose with his good hand.

They sat that way for a few minutes, JD staring at the wall and Josiah kneeling in front of him, one hand on his arm, a steadying presence. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, JD sniffed again and gave Josiah a chagrined look. “I’m okay. You don’t have to babysit me.”

Josiah patted JD’s arm and gave him a reassuring smile, made to stand up. “I hope you’ll accept a helpin’ hand back to bed, anyway.”

JD had put his hand out to Josiah, gripped it tightly as the larger man hauled him to his feet. As Josiah put his arm around JD’s waist to keep him from falling, the youth turned his hazel eyes to the gunslinger and said, “I don’t want to go back to bed.”

Josiah blinked. “JD, you been through one hell of a m-”

JD shook his head emphatically, black hair flopping over the scar, the bruised face. “I wanna go to the jail. I want him to see that he didn’t whip me.”

Josiah regarded JD carefully, up and down, for a long moment, “You sure?”

JD nodded solemnly, but his eyes revealed a soul scared to death. “He’s got to pay, Josiah. And - and I gotta face this, or I’m no better than he is. Yes, I’m sure.”

Josiah sighed, wondered if JD was strong enough to be in with Chris’ demons so quick. But there was that stubborn will in those long-lashed eyes, made of something stronger than iron or stone; and it wrapped itself around JD’s voice and amplified it as he looked in the preacher’s eyes and said:

“Take me to the jail.”

  
  


The jail was silent and cold, like a tomb. Despite the early morning sunshine, it felt to Chris like the pitchest black of night as he stood in front of Orin’s desk, and waited.

In their cell, Sherson and Childers stared in terrified fascination at the black clad stranger that had just walked in, dark as a thundercloud. They gulped, and didn’t move.

Orin walked in behind Chris, spurs jarring against the hard floor. Chris stared at the desk, swallowed hard, felt like bolting, fought it frantically. This is right. This is what has to be done.

Orin walked to his desk, stood behind it. Chris lifted his head, slowly, didn’t want to meet those accusing eyes, knew he had to. Then he did, and found just what he expected there; a cold detachment, not Orin the friend or Orin, Mary’s father-in-law whose life Chris had saved, and whose grandson favored Chris with idolizing affection. This was Orin W. Travis, Circuit Judge of the territory. Chris would get no favors from him.

_Good._ Chris looked Orin right in the eye.

Other footsteps, and Chris’ eyes dropped to the desk as he held his breath, suddenly felt as if he was in some kind of hazy nightmare, so complete was the terror he was feeling. It was a frenzied, wild panic. He knew who was coming, knew his greatest nightmare was about to become reality, and Chris suddenly yearned for a bottle of whiskey, of beer, of anything that would dull his senses. They hurt so much and he so badly wanted to escape. _I can’t take it._

No. For Sarah, and Adam. Face this.

Chris Larabee looked up.

They were standing behind Orin, in the dim light of the jail, standing as still and pale as if they were made of wax. Chris’ stomach lurched, and he fought tears as he struggled to look them in the face, these men whom he had fought beside for six months...and then in one awful, disastrous night, nearly destroyed. He didn’t have to ask what they’d been through in his absence, it was in their eyes, in their faces, in the blood that was finely spattered over Vin’s coat and in his hair, and the bruises on Ezra’s face. No, Chris didn’t have to ask. He already knew.

Vin was standing behind Orin’s right shoulder, Nathan’s hand on his arm to steady him, and Chris winced, felt his stomach fall into the floor at the sight of his friend looking so pale, so injured. It was a tremendous struggle to look into those blue eyes, but with a supreme effort Chris forced himself to connect, and saw when he did the eternal calm of Vin’s gaze, the unwavering empathy the fellow lost soul that Chris suddenly realized he had been missing. Chris almost gasped at the depth of it; no hostility, no rancor, but rather a detached observing, wary but uncondemning, fighting to make itself known against pain and loss of blood. _My God. Vin doesn’t hate me._

Nathan stood next to Vin, and when Chris looked into his eyes he saw some of the anger that was missing from the bounty hunter’s gaze. There was hurt there too, and an uncertainty, as if the healer was unsure of what Chris’ return meant. I have to make it up to you, don’t I. You aren’t taking my penitence for a given, like Vin is. You don’t trust me. And I don’t blame you.

Just behind Orin’s left shoulder Chris saw Ezra standing half in the shadows, but the gambler wasn’t meeting his eyes. Chris felt a pang then, knew from Ezra’s tight face and flushed complexion that the usually placid gambler was fighting a tremendous battle against tearing him to pieces. Ezra kept his eyes fixed on the desk in front of him, but Chris could almost hear him trembling with rage. Chris stared for a moment. Whatever he had unleashed in the normally imperturbable gambler, it was crude and fierce and very close to exploding. Chris had never seen Ezra so emotional, and it terrified him.

Buck was standing next to Ezra, and Chris saw to his dismay that the gunslinger wasn’t looking at him either. Instead he was standing with his head down and his hat thrown back on his neck, his hands on his hips as if he were deep in thought. _Look at me, Buck._ Chris felt his heart break at the sight of his friend’s face. It was haggard, drawn, as if he hadn’t slept in ages, and Chris winced as he thought of how Buck must have sat by JD’s bedside, night after night, how many mornings? How many afternoons? _He sat by your side too, and you pushed him away. You stupid fool._

There were quiet footsteps behind him, and Chris didn’t have to look to know who it was; only one man among them had the strength to carry a crippled boy down a flight of stairs, and so quietly. Chris felt his composure slipping, knew soon he would shatter under the tremendous guilt that hung in the room, that wrapped itself around him and clung to his soul. He saw the others’ expressions change as they looked behind him, watched their eyes grow darker and more sorrowful. Buck’s expression hardened into a bitter mask, and the flush of Ezra’s face darkened to a maroon as his green eyes flashed angry fire. And still neither man looked Chris in the eye.

Chris took a deep breath, saw in his mind the mountain he had yet to climb, turned slowly toward the dark form he knew was Josiah, standing just behind him. He looked into Josiah’s eyes for a moment, saw infinite compassion and knowledge there, how did he know? When he sent me away, how did he know what would happen? His eyes locked with Josiah’s, just for a moment, and Chris almost asked; how did you know?

At the same time, out of the corner of his eye, Chris saw supported on Josiah’s arm an almost-image: a dark head of hair, a white shirt, a face looking down at the floor, lips pursed, a fair complexion bruised and beaten and black stitches in his hair, one arm bound to his side in a white bandage -

\- a white shirt being gripped, thrown, slammed, again and again -

\- slumping against the brick wall, when there was nothing left -

\- blood and broken bones, my God.

Chris gulped, gasped, looked away. Not ready yet. Not yet.

But the others, they were looking at him, waiting. Waiting for Orin to speak, or him. Chris swallowed hard, heaved himself out of the terror of the moment, knew he had to.

It was time.

Chris looked at the judge, at his friends who were standing behind him, raised himself up to his tall height and took a deep breath. Let it out. And spoke, his voice clear and strong.

“Five days ago,” he said steadily, “I attacked JD Dunne in the alleyway outside this jail. He was badly hurt, and I’m responsible. I’m here to turn myself in.”

Thundering silence in the room. The men looked at each other, at Orin. Chris felt the floor tilt beneath him, heard a curious thundering roar in his ears. Ignored it.

Orin looked at him, glanced behind him. Chris knew he was looking at JD, winced as the judge said softly, “Mr. Dunne?”

A soft reply, injured but unbowed. “Yes, sir?”

Chris saw Orin’s face soften. “Son, is what this man says true? He the one who hurt you?”

Chris ducked his head, felt every ounce of pride and arrogance he ever had fold itself quietly up and slip out of him. He closed his eyes and willed himself not to collapse.

A long pause, the sound of a throat clearing. “Y-yes sir.” Then, stronger. “Yes, sir. He is.”

The men behind the judge stirred, and Chris’ muscles ached with sudden tenseness as he lifted his head to look at them. Vin was looking at him, regret in his eyes. Nathan was openly glaring. Ezra was in the shadows, his face unreadable. Buck was looking at JD, his expression sending Chris back to another day, another tragedy.

And you pushed him away. You damn fool.

Orin’s face became official again, or tried to as he said, “In these cases, the accuser always has the right to confront the accused. JD, do you have anything to say to Chris?”

Chris couldn’t look, closed his eyes as he heard the youth behind him take a few gulping breaths. He glanced at Buck, saw his old friend looking at JD with such an expression of helpless sorrow that Chris felt like dying.

But no. He had to live. That was his punishment for all this. Live, and regret.

It seemed like a hundred years later, but was really only a few moments had passed when JD finally spoke, in a voice that seemed to be fighting with itself for control, resolution against soul-curdling fear. “No, sir. I don’t have anything to say, I guess. I just - I just wanted him to see me.”

Chris shuddered, and felt tears sting his eyes. God...

Orin tilted his head, nodded and said slowly. “All right, son. Chris Larabee, you’re pleading guilty to assault and battery. Have anything to say before I pass sentence?”

Chris shook his head, felt once again the inescapable weight of his friends’ eyes on him, knew that he couldn’t hide, that it was over. But, that was good. This felt good, that it was over, and Chris straightened himself up again, knew that this was how it had to be, if he ever wanted peace, ever wanted things set right. He knew what he had to do. Shaking his head slightly, he looked Judge Travis in the eye and in a hoarse, dry whisper said:

“Let me pass my own sentence.”

Orin looked at him, puzzled. The others turned to each other, Vin expressionless, Nathan and Ezra clearly confused. Buck still kept his gaze on the floor, but Chris felt his anger, thought, maybe this will help. I hope so...

As they all watched, Chris slowly unbuckled his guns and laid them on the desk. They clattered loudly, almost deafeningly in the shroud-silence of the room. Then, slowly turning until he could almost see JD and Josiah standing behind him, Chris walked resolutely to the cell block and, taking the keys from the hook, unlocked the outer doors and walked in. Orin followed him.

There were two men in the first cell, who stared at Chris in a kind of amazed, frightened shock, but he barely noticed them. With Orin walking behind him, he opened up the second cell, walked in and turned around, handing Orin the keys.

As Orin backed away, Chris grabbed the iron bars of the cell door in his hands and looked the judge in the eye with sorrowful determination. The others gathered around him, and Chris looked into their faces, their eyes, thought, whatever it takes, I’ve got to get them back. If it takes the rest of my life.

I’ve got to set it right.

And Chris Larabee, onetime leader of the Magnificent Seven and admitted assailant, tightened his grip on the iron-barred door in his hands and looked at Judge Orin Travis with eyes that blazed with determination and self-recriminating strength.

“When JD walks through the that door ,” he said in the same clear, strong voice as he glanced toward the front of the jail, “then you can let me out.”

And he slammed the jail door shut.

The loud clanging noise reverberated in the small room, echoed endlessly within the brick walls. The men all stared at Chris as he backed away from the bars, to where the small cot was sitting against the wall in the back of the cell. Without looking at his onetime friends again, Chris sat down on the matted straw ticking, and put his head in his hands.

Still, nothing was said for what seemed an eternity. Orin turned around, looked at the men thoughtfully and said in a soft voice, “If you gentlemen don’t object, I’d like to let Mr. Larabee’s sentence stand.”

Silence. Buck looked at JD, but the youth was slumped against Josiah’s strong arm, obviously exhausted. Josiah’s eyes locked with Buck’s, infinite compassion meeting infinite fury. Then Josiah looked down, whispered something to JD who nodded. Without another word, he led JD to the back door of the jail, and the small group broke up, leaving Chris Larabee alone.

  
  


The sun shone brightly on Buck’s face as he followed his friends out the jailhouse door and onto the boardwalk. Curious passersby gawked at them, then went back to sweeping the glass off the street and helping the soldiers with the wounded and the dead. Buck sighed wearily, and wished he could stop hurting.

Orin came out of the jail behind them, squinted into the morning sun as he stood next to Vin and checked his pocket watch. “I suggest you men get some rest. I imagine you can use some.”

Vin leaned back a bit, away from the supporting hand Nathan still had on his arm, peered at the dead outlaws that littered the street like scraps of paper. “I’d best take a look around, make sure we ain’t got more company...”

He went two steps and faltered a bit before Nathan quickly took hold of his shoulder with his other hand and said, “Uh-huh, sure you are. You been wounded, best let me get you taken care of before you fall over and bang the other side of your head.”

“I don’t need no nursemaidin’,” Vin grumbled, but Buck noticed he didn’t resist as Nathan guided him to a nearby barrel and firmly set him down on it.

“Then call it insurance,” Nathan muttered as he closely examined the tear in Vin’s scalp. “Last thing we need right now is you gettin’ all woozy with a gun in your hand an’ shootin’ Conklin again.”

Vin grunted, and glared at the open air as Nathan looked him over.

Ezra put his hat on, looked longingly across the street. “You know, I may head on over to the saloon. I haven’t dealt a game in ages.”

Orin cast his eye on Buck, then the others, and nodded knowingly as he snapped his watch closed. “Mr. Jackson, you take care of Mr. Tanner and the others. As for the rest of you, if anything happens, I’ll let you know.”

Nathan nodded, Vin winced, but Buck gazed around the cluttered street, too tired for a moment to move, or even think. Orin sighed, and headed back into the jail, the door softly clicking shut behind him.

Ezra took out his cards, flipped them idly as he surveyed the damage around them. “Well, once again we’ve managed to single-handedly rescue this town from the clutches of evil. You would think someone would offer to buy us a drink.”

There were a few smiles, even from Vin, who was obviously in some discomfort as Nathan pressed a clean handkerchief over his scalp wound. Even a halfway attempt at humor felt good, after so long. Buck sighed and rolled his shoulders, felt the sun on his face. Things were starting to feel a little better. Chris was back, in jail where he belonged...but Buck didn’t like to think on that, didn’t like the battling emotions of relief and overwhelming anger that had roiled inside of him at the sight of his onetime best friend. No, he didn’t like that at all. So he let it go.

Josiah walked up, limping slightly, his face tired and anxious. Spotting Nathan bending away from Vin, and the former bounty hunter holding the cloth to his head, the preacher said, “Working your miracles again, doc?”

Nathan shrugged. “Tryin’ to, if the patient sits still long enough. How’s your leg?”

“I’ve had worse,” Josiah said dismissively, glancing down at his bandaged leg as if he’d forgotten it was there. Looking back up he said, “JD’s askin’ on ya, Nathan. His collarbone’s troublin’ him.”

Nathan nodded, sighed. “Comin’.”

As if by an unspoken signal, Nathan helped Vin up and they all started walking toward Nathan’s room, a collection of concern and sympathy, JD’s room neglected, the patrol put on hold, the card game forgotten. They had only gone about a dozen steps in the morning sunshine when they heard the light voice of Mary Travis saying, “Mr. Wilmington?”

Buck turned around; they all did. Mary was standing behind them, and next to her was a tall, stocky fellow, giving Buck a curiously hopeful look.

Buck frowned, perplexed. “Mrs. Travis?”

Mary looked at Buck with a puzzled expression, indicated the man next to her and said, “He wanted me to find you, I’m sorry if I’m interrupting...”

The man looked Buck up and down, a small smile on his face. “Then ye’re Buck Wilmington?”

Buck frowned deeper, not in the mood for riddles. What accent was that? Dutch? “Yeah. Who’re you?”

The man nodded in satisfaction, took off his hat and put his hand out. “M’name’s Darcy Thomas. I was told to ask for ye, personally.”

After a moment’s hesitation Buck shook Darcy’s hand, was surprised at the strength of it. Scottish, maybe. He peered at Darcy with a hint of impatience and said, “What do you need me for?”

Darcy brought one hand up, scratched behind his ear. “Well, I was told by Mrs. Travis here that yer the closest thing Mr. Dunne has to a guardian, so I’ll be askin’ yer permission before I get to work.”

Buck found himself growing irritated, noticed the other men gathering around him, openly curious. Welsh. Welsh? No...

Nathan asked, “What do you mean, work?”

Darcy leaned back a bit, turned his hat in his hands. “I’m sorry, I should have been more explicit. I’m a doctor, you see.”

Buck’s head came back, the accent forgotten. Everyone was paying close attention now.

Darcy paused, his face suddenly very serious. “And I’ve been sent here, to give Mr. Dunne all the help that he requires to get him well again.”

Buck shook his head, felt a tremendous joy but checked it, because he wasn’t understanding this. “You know about JD?”

Darcy nodded, his face sincere and concerned. “Yes, Mr. Wilmington. I’ve been told he’s suffered blows to the head, that he can’t walk anymore. It’s a terrible injury to be sure, but he’s not crippled for life. It’s not a paralysis; he can get back to himself again, and I’m here to make sure he does.”

Buck frowned, unable to fathom what this dark-clad man was saying. The others wore similar looks of doubt. Ezra’s face was incredulous, even angry as he leaned forward threateningly and said, “Sir, if this is some kind of chicanery, or a cruel joke on Mr. Wilmington’s person - ”

Darcy’s hands went up. “No, sir, I promise you - all of you - I am in earnest. They haven’t done as much work with head injuries over here, but in Europe I’ve seen many men in Mr. Dunne’s condition walk again. And I would never inform you of this possibility, if I did not believe, in his case, that it was possible also.”

Buck shook his head; it suddenly hurt tremendously. He couldn’t speak.

Mary put a hand on Darcy’s arm, her eyes round with questions as she asked, “Mr. Thomas , if JD isn’t paralyzed, then what’s wrong with him? Why can’t he walk?”

“From what I understand,” Darcy explained as Buck and the others exchanged increasingly amazed glances, “it’s because he was hit in the back of the head. It’s like his brain forgot how to tell his legs what to do. Like a baby, you see. Mr. Dunne is perfectly capable of walking. We just have to teach him how to do it.”

“And you can do that?” Nathan asked, clearly impressed.

“Well,” Darcy admitted, “I haven’t seen the boy yet, but from what I’ve been told there’s no reason why he can’t relearn what he used to know. No reason at all.”

There was a small pause while the group absorbed this. Then Vin whispered, “Nathan, tell me I ain’t hallucinatin’ this.”

“You ain’t,” Nathan replied, a wide smile on his face.

Buck couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Mr. Thomas, are you sayin’ - ” He paused, considered his words. He wanted to be really, really sure about this. “Are you sayin’ JD is gonna walk again?”

Darcy’s eyes gleamed as he gave Buck a hopeful smile. “Mr. Wilmington, Mr. Dunne’s got Ireland in his veins. I’m sayin’ he’ll bloody well fly if he wants to.”

Irish! That’s it, but other thoughts suddenly boiled over that one, spilled over until Buck was seized by an immutable joy that bounded up and fired through him with the force of a hurricane. JD was going to walk again. He looked at Darcy, at Mary, at his friends, and felt himself lighting up, like someone was turning up a lamp inside. Then, all at once, he let out a whoop of joy, unable to believe how light he suddenly felt, how happy. JD would walk again. No, it was too incredible, but...but this man seemed so serious, and Buck trusted him, why, he didn’t know. Something in the eyes, maybe. But he trusted him.

JD was going to walk again. It was too good to be true.

Buck looked at his friends, saw his unfettered happiness reflected in their expressions: Nathan was openly beaming at him. Vin was looking sideways at Nathan; then he looked at Buck, his face a map of gentle encouragement despite its palenss. Josiah reached out and put his hand on Buck’s shoulder, the pillar of strength as always, and Ezra -

Ezra was gone.

Buck looked around as the group began to move away, Josiah leading Darcy to Nathan’s room, Nathan still firmly supporting the faltering Vin. He finally spotted Ezra a few feet away, facing away from him. Puzzled, Buck took a step toward the gambler and said, “Ezra?”

There was a pause, then Ezra turned around. “These accursed desert winds,” he muttered in his Southern drawl, dabbing at his eye with his handkerchief. He blinked at Buck and said gravely, “Blew dust right into my eye.”

Buck grinned, clapped Ezra on the arm and laughed, laughed for the first time in nearly a week and felt so wonderful he thought he would split in two. And knew the gambler was right behind him as he ran to catch up with the others.

  
  


JD sighed and stared out of the window from the bed, waiting for Josiah to return. The window was still open, and JD gazed at the bright blue sky and the high white clouds, that he could just see but never reach. A beautiful sky really, and JD laid his head against the mountain of pillows, gazed at the brilliant patch of sky, and hurt.

Everything hurt. Seeing Chris again hurt, hurt a lot, and JD was mad about that. He thought standing up to Chris wouldn’t be that bad, but once they’d gotten into the jail it was like someone kicked him in the stomach, and it was a fight just to keep from falling apart.

Why didn’t Chris look at me? All he had to do was look at me and say, I’m sorry. How hard is that? Unless he’s not really sorry. Unless he’s just pretending.

JD shifted in the bed, rode along with the bad mood he felt himself slipping into. Chris was back, had locked himself in the jail, what had he said? When JD walks through that door, you let me out. But JD knew he wasn’t ever going to walk again. Did Chris know that? Was he really going to stay in jail forever? Or maybe he was just trying to impress the judge, kind of saying, see how sorry I am? But Chris knew better than that, the judge was really strict. And Chris admitted he did it.

JD closed his eyes, the scene replaying in his mind, Chris standing there with his back to them, the words clear as a church bell on a winter morning: I attacked JD Dunne in the alleyway outside this jail. He was badly hurt, and I’m responsible. I’m here to turn myself in. Chris had sounded so strange when he said it, so...JD couldn’t put his finger on it, but he thought it sounded almost like Chris wanted them to hate him, like he didn’t care what happened to him if they knew.

And they did hate him. Boy, JD didn’t think he’d ever seen Buck or Ezra look so mad, or Nathan either. JD thought they hated Chris more than he did, then thought about it again. Did he hate Chris? What was that he felt when he first saw his former hero, when he’d almost shot him? It was like...it was like he sometimes felt when he and Buck had had too many beers at the saloon, like his feelings were running off, and he was just watching. But worse, not loopy like he was drunk but mad, and oh Jesus had it hurt. Like a Fourth of July rocket going off on the ground, spinning and spinning and blowing hot, painful sparks, and you didn’t dare put your hands on it. That’s what seeing Chris again had felt like. And JD didn’t understand it.

Except he didn’t want to hate Chris. Really, he didn’t.

A light breeze blew in through the window, softly ruffling the white curtains that hung in Nathan’s window. JD looked at them in a kind of drowsy fascination, remembered other curtains, white lace, a much bigger window, salty spring air. JD felt a sudden pang, closed his eyes and swallowed sudden tears. God, mama, I wish you were here. I thought you were for a while, but I guess I was just dreaming. I’m scared, mama, I don’t know what’s going to happen to my life anymore, and I wish I could talk to you because you always seemed to know. You said I’d do great things someday, that I could do anything I wanted, but that was before, mama. I’m hurt now, hurt like those men in the soldiers’ home, remember I used to ask if they were ghosts, because they never moved or acted like they knew anybody was around? Am I going to be like that? I don’t want to be. But...I guess...

I wish you were here.

I wish everything didn’t hurt.

Why didn’t Chris look at me?

JD didn’t realize he’d nodded off until he started awake, at the sound of the door opening. For a split second he panicked, and saw the nightmare image of Durning lurching into the room. With a startled cry, he jerked himself up in the bed.

And met Buck’s surprised eyes, and immediately felt really stupid.

“Hey, there, kid,” Buck said reassuringly, putting his hands up as he walked around the bed. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“Geez, Buck,” JD said in chagrin, rubbing his eyes for a moment and trying to sit up. “Didn’t anybody ever teach you to knock?”

Buck laughed, and JD shook his head to clear the last of the cobwebs out, and looked at him, puzzled. Buck looked awfully happy about something, and now JD noticed the others coming into the room, Josiah, then Nathan and Vin, Ezra last of all, and another man, tall and broad shouldered, who JD didn’t know. Another one of those businessmen, maybe.

JD noticed Vin was holding a cloth to his forehead, a white cloth with blood spotted on it, and was moving awkwardly as Nathan planted him in the closest chair he could find. His eyes widening, JD gasped, “Gosh, Vin, you get hurt again?”

“I’m fine, kid,” Vin answered in a voice that was weak, but sounded curiously cheerful. Nathan seemed intent on the former bounty hunter, nagging him to take his jacket off and looking at his bleeding scalp in concern. But when the healer looked at JD, his expression changed to one of pure joy, and he smiled.

“He’s gonna be okay, son,” Nathan said reassuringly. “Just needs to take it easy for a while.”

JD swallowed, thought in mild confusion, if you say so.

“Well,” Buck said cheerfully as he sat down on the bed. “As I said, I guess I forgot my manners, but I got some good news for ya, JD. Real good news.”

JD scooted himself up in the bed a little more, tried to get comfortable. “About San Francisco?”

Buck laughed again, and JD looked at him again. _Is he drunk or something?_ Then he noticed everyone looked kind of giddy, like it was Christmas or something. Vin still had that funny smile on his face, and what the hell was the matter with Ezra? JD didn’t remember the gambler having any allergies. But then, his memory might have still had a few holes.

Buck looked behind him, waved a hand toward the broad shouldered man. “JD, this here’s Darcy Thomas.”

The broad shouldered man walked up to JD, put out his hand with a gentle smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet ye, Mr. Dunne.”

“He’s an Irish fella,” Buck noted proudly.

JD stared at the man, at Buck. Why was everybody acting so weird? He started to put up his hand to shake Darcy’s, just to be polite, but his collarbone nagged him and he brought his hand back with a gasp.

“Here,” Nathan said, coming over to JD as Josiah helped Vin get his jacket off. “Let me take a look at that bandage. Josiah said it’s bothering you?”

“Uh.” JD looked down at his bound arm, suddenly embarrassed, and hefted himself so Nathan could get at the bandage. “Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

Darcy came and stood behind Nathan, and was looking at JD as the healer checked the bindings. JD stared back, curious, and noticed that this man had a funny look on his face too, a look that,strangely, reminded JD of his mother. Happy and sad and worried and relieved, all at once.

Darcy smiled at Nathan, said in an admiring lilt, “Ye do good work, Mr. Jackson. I couldn’t have set that collarbone any better, meself.”

JD stared at the man in open confusion, thought, that’s an awful funny thing for a businessman to say. Wincing as Nathan touched a sore area, JD glanced at the healer and said to Darcy, “You couldn’t, not unless you were a doctor or something.”

Buck’s voice was suddenly quiet, different. “JD?”  
JD looked up.

Buck’s smile was quiet as he cleared his throat. “Darcy Thomas **is** a doctor.”

JD blinked. The information wasn’t sinking in.

Buck’s smile grew wider, his voice barely above a whisper. “And he’s here to get you walkin’ again.”

Oh, now this had to be some kind of stupid joke. JD didn’t bother hiding his confusion, ignored the sudden shooting pain as Nathan rebound the bandage. His hazel eyes went from Buck to Darcy as he stammered, “Get me w - come on, Buck, you know I can’t walk anymore. That’s really low.”

Buck’s face dropped into such an expression of shock that JD immediately felt terrible, but - but it had to be a joke...

“Now, son,” Buck said in a voice that trembled with emotion, “how could you even think I’d put you on over something like this? I know, it don’t sound reasonable, but it’s true. I swear to God it’s true, Mr. Thomas has promised us he’s gonna see to it himself. You’re gonna be all right, JD. You’re gonna be just fine.”

JD sat back in the bed, blinked, thought, no. Too many of his dreams had been shattered recently to think that one could come true. He couldn’t believe -

But - but there was certainty in this Darcy’s eyes, a kind of determination as he looked at JD and said softly, “It’s true, my boy. Now it won’t be easy, and it won’t be right away, but ye’re not paralyzed. Yer legs work, it’s just a matter of teachin’ ‘em what to do again. If ye want this, if ye really want it - ”

JD found himself nodding, mesmerized by this man’s quiet optimism. A kind of numb excitement was building somewhere deep inside him, where it had been so dark. So dark, and now...

Darcy leaned back, looked around him at the others who were standing in the early morning light of that room, and smiled. “Then I suggest the rest of ye start gettin’ ready. Young Mr. Dunne here will be outridin’ the lot of ye before we’re through. I can promise you that.”

For a split second everything stopped. JD looked around one more time. _This can’t be real. I’m dreaming. It can’t -_

But Josiah was grinning from where he stood over Vin, his blue eyes lit up with joy. Vin was leaning against the preacher, one hand still pressing the bloodied cloth to his scalp but - but he was smiling too, fighting his dizziness to give JD the biggest grin JD knew he was capable of at the moment. Nathan was laughing, his face glowing with happiness, and Ezra was coughing and scratching at his eye in an oddly self-conscious way, and JD realized he was crying. Ezra was crying.

And that’s when it hit: I’m going to walk again.

JD couldn’t believe it. He looked at the others, at Buck, and laughed for sheer joy. He felt a surge of electricity run through him, coursing through the tiredness, the surrender that had been imprisoning him for so long. I’m going to walk again. No. I’m going to **ride** again, and I’ll show them, I’ll be as good as I ever was, better even. He felt lightheaded, exuberant, like he could fly, and looked up at Buck. And then looked again, puzzled.

Buck coughed, looked away and muttered. “Damn desert sand. Uh, Ezra, mind if I use that handkerchief?”

JD shook his head, and as the others talked and celebrated around him, looked back at Darcy and saw the oddest expression on his face. JD thought again of his mother, of the day when she realized she was going to die and had told him he was going to have to grow up, but she was proud of him and knew he’d do well. I’ve been nothing but a problem to you, mama, JD had said, because he was afraid she’d gotten sick from working so hard to save money for him. She’d smiled and put her hand on his cheek and said, No, JD, you were never a problem. You saved my life, don’t you know that? I was so lonely before you came, but you brought my life back to me. You saved me.

And now this Darcy was looking at JD the same way, like JD had done some big thing, saved somebody’s life, or something, but JD knew he had to be wrong, because he hadn’t done anything, except get beaten up by Chris. And JD had no idea how that could save anybody’s life.


	17. Chapter 17

Childers glared at Orin from his seat on the cot in the jail cell, his legs drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He was sore from being in the same cramped, balled-up position for so long, but he couldn’t help it. He was too scared to move.

The circuit judge scared him. He thought for a little while, after that blond kid came and got Durning, that maybe they’d be able to blow this one-horse town, or maybe escape if Concho managed to take over. But no, Durning got away scot-free, was probably riding toward the border with Concho and laughing his head off at him, and Sherson. Lousy jerk. This whole stupid thing was his idea in the first place! Yet he gets to escape, and we’re stuck here. It’s not fair.

And now that judge kept looking at them, giving them what Childers was sure was some kind of evil eye. He hadn’t said much to either of them, except to ask if they knew why they were in jail, and if there was anyone they wanted him to contact. Childers kept his mouth shut, followed Sherson’s lead, which was to say nothing and scowl at the judge until he went away. The judge just shrugged off their behavior, had just gone back to his desk and started writing; what, Childers had no idea. And he didn’t really care. He just wanted to get the hell out of this ratty little town, out of the state, and find Tims so he could wring that little weasel’s neck.

At least they knew better than to throw that squealer in here with us, he thought angrily. Five seconds, that’s all it would take. As it was, both Childers and Sherson heard the judge tell one of the soldiers to hold Tims under house arrest, and confine him to helping tend to the wounded at the church. Childers thought of the acid gleam in his partners’ eyes when they’d looked at each other upon hearing of Tims’ whereabouts. Five seconds. That’s all it would take. All they needed was the chance...

But they weren’t likely to get it, not with this damned hawk of a judge watching their every move. No, we’re stuck here, dammit, and I’m losing sales. My wife is going to be so pissed...

And then this guy in black had come in. Jesus, and I thought the outlaws were scary. He risked a glance over at the other cell, but the guy in black - what was his name, Larabee? - was sitting as he had been all morning, with his back to them, his head down like he was holding his chin in his hands, staring at the wall Childers guessed, or maybe asleep. Probably asleep.

Jesus. Childers shuddered at the memory of all those gunslingers coming into the room, and the judge. For a second he thought that he and Sherson had had it, but everybody ignored them, which Childers found strangely insulting. And then they brought that kid in...

Childers had a thought, turned to his partner and whispered, “Hey, Sherson.”

Sherson barely glanced at him before turning his gloomy face to look out the too-distant window at the front of the jail. “What?”

“Who won the bet? You remember?”

Sherson blinked, gazed at Childers in blank irritation. “Bet?”

“Yeah. You know.” Childers waved one hand to where the kid had been, before. “The bet, about when that kid was going to kick.”

“Oh, Christ, Childers,” Sherson muttered, and scooted back on the cot, leaned his back against the wall and pulled his feet up onto the ticking.

“What?” Childers asked defensively, giving his partner a dirty look. “If I won, you owe me some money, jerk.”

Sherson stared out the window a moment, then smiled. “No, you owe **me** money.”

“Huh!” Childers sat up in surprise.

“Yep.” Sherson nodded firmly. “You said he’d die in two days. I said two weeks, I remember.”

Childers frowned, brought himself back on the cot, clearly vexed. “But - all right, forget it. Nobody collects.”

“Ha!” Sherson laughed, a rude bark. “Makes a difference if you lose, huh?”

“What?” Childers said in a low whine. “It’s - nobody collects because he didn’t kick. You saw that kid, he ain’t gonna die. Not from getting beat up, anyway.”

Sherson shrugged. “Then I win, because I came closest to being right. Two weeks is closer to when he bites it than two days is.”

Childers was about to haul off and slug his partner when they both heard a throat being cleared, noisily. Jumping, they looked up and saw Judge Travis standing in front of the bars, his face stern and cold.

“Thought you gentlemen would like to know,” the judge drawled, accenting the word ‘gentlemen’ in a way neither man cared for, “you’ll be leaving this town today. I’ve arranged for your transport to a facility better equipped for your punishment.”

Both men gulped, but Childers tried to remain above it all. After all, this was just a stupid hick town. He knew they couldn’t hold him for long.

Sherson cocked his head, peered at Travis with an air of insolence. “Why are you moving us? Afraid Durning’s gonna come back and get us out of here?”

“No,” Travis said simply, turning away from the bars and walking back to his desk at a leisurely pace. “I’m afraid Mr. Durning did not survive his attempt at freedom. I have his name on the list of casualties, right here on my desk.”

Sherson and Childers looked at each other.

“We should have bet on when **he** kicked,” Childers muttered. “Then I would have won.”

“I’m moving you,” Travis continued as he sat down, a dark shadow in a pool of morning sunlight, “Firstly, to protect you from the wrath of the good citizens of this town. Once word of your involvement with Concho Charles becomes public, I doubt even these soldiers will be able to keep either one of you from getting lynched.”

Sherson grunted, but Childers pointed to Chris and yapped, “Well, what about him? He’s worse than we are, all we did was steal some stuff. He almost ki- ”

“Mr. Larabee turned himself in,” Travis pointed out, folding his hands and giving Childers an ice-cold glare. “We had to chase you two down, and drag you here kicking and screaming. Makes a mighty big difference.”

There was a moment’s pause; then Sherson said, “Well, what about Tims? He going to jail too?”

“Mr. Alderman,” Travis said, looking down at his desk and shuffling papers, “is going to suffer the same incarceration that awaits you two. The proper authorities have been alerted, and you will be taken from here this afternoon to Ridge City to await them.”

“Ridge City?” Sherson asked. “Why Ridge City?”

“Because,” Travis replied, rising once again and walking toward the cell with two telegrams in his hand, “that’s where you will be meeting your new wardens. And I’m afraid they were very upset over having to come out here to meet you.”

He handed the telegrams through the bars. Sherson snatched one defiantly. Childers took the other, looked at it for a moment quizzically.

Sherson gasped first. “Oh, my God!”

“Shit,” Childers echoed, then looked up at Travis with unfettered malice in his eyes. “You son of a bitch.”

Travis couldn’t help smiling. “That’s right, gentlemen. You’ve been remanded to the custody of your wives. And they know all about what you’ve been up to.”

Sherson balled up the telegram in fury, threw it on the floor in disgust. Childers put his head in his hands and groaned.

Travis looked at the two men without a shred of sympathy. “Consider yourselves fortunate. The only reason I took this course of action is because one look at you two was enough to convince me you wouldn’t last five minutes inside Yuma prison. I’m doing you gentlemen a favor. Be grateful.”

Both men looked up, daggers in their eyes. Sherson snarled, “Grateful! You just wrecked our lives, you two-bit hick.”

Travis’ eyes glided to Sherson, unmoving and unmoved.

The quiet solidity in Travis’ gaze unnerved Sherson, and he sniped, “Do you realize what this means? My business is shot! I’ll be thrown out of all of my clubs! And you know what? It’s all his fault,” Sherson pointed to Chris. “If he hadn’t beat that kid up, none of this would have happened. None of it, and I’ll tell you something else. If I ever come back to this backwards shit town, I’m going make you pay for this. You and him and everybody. That’s a promise.”

Childers was edging away from Sherson, a little thrown by his partner’s venom, but a glance at Travis showed the lawman wasn’t going for his gun, wasn’t going to blast them both into a million pieces. Instead he just regarded Sherson with the same steady gaze, and gave him a tight smile. It was impossible to ignore the gleam in his eye, however, as he leaned forward and whispered, in a voice that was low and calm and full of rattlesnakes:

“If I were you, son...I wouldn’t bet on it.”

The outside door opened just then, and Travis turned away from the cell and its two resentful occupants, contemplating their looks of startled dismay. His expression changed to a gentle smile when he saw Mary enter, and he walked to his desk and sat down.

“Orin!” Mary said joyously, taking her father-in-law’s hands as he pushed his chair forward. “You’ll never guess what’s happened.”

Orin glanced at Mary’s hands over his and said lightly, “Well, I would say that you’ve got the hospital set up, put some coffee on at the office, and telegraphed the surrounding towns about the death of Concho Charles. But I don’t think it would make you this happy.”

Mary shook her head for a moment, then bubbled, “In the basement of the church - after Mr. Dwight was shot - a man came, a - ”

“You did get the hospital set up, didn’t you?” Orin interjected. “I want to make sure everyone’s taken care of, even the outlaws. Just because a man’s on the wrong side of the law, he shouldn’t bleed to death in the street.”

Mary’s nod was fast, excited. “Yes, we set it up by the church, the women are helping, everything’s fine, but listen to me, Orin!”

Orin’s expression was puzzled as Mary’s grip on his hands tightened.

“JD,” Mary was almost crying as she spoke, but her words were measured and calm. “He’s going to walk again.”

Orin’s head tilted, disbelief in every line of his face. “How?”

“A doctor came into town this morning,” Mary explained in breathless tones as Orin pulled his hands from hers and leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. “From Europe, he’s treated people like JD, he says he’s gotten them to walk.”

Orin brought one hand up to his chin, was regarding Mary keenly. “And he can do the same with Mr. Dunne?”

Mary nodded, her eyes glowing like stars. “He’s talking to Nathan right now, he wants to set up a schedule and exercises and a lot of things I think only they understand, but I had to come over here and tell you. I knew you’d be thrilled.”

“No, I’m encouraged.” Orin leaned forward, put his hands on the desk. “I’ll be thrilled when I see the evidence of this man’s words. What’s his name?”  
Mary glanced over at the cell where Chris sat, his back to both of them, not moving. After a moment she looked back at Orin and answered, “Thomas. Darcy Thomas, he’s from Ireland.”

“Ireland! What’s he doing in Four Corners?”

“Well, he...” Mary looked at Chris again, began to realize something that made her scatterbrained with emotion. Her gaze was warm as she rested it on Orin and said in a soft whisper, “He told me he came here with Chris.”

Orin read her eyes, looked at the cell with its motionless occupant. After a long pause, he regarded Mary and said in quiet tones, “You going back to help out?”

Mary nodded, backed toward the door. “There’s still a lot to be done.”

“Well,” Orin said, looking at Chris as he spoke, “I think we’re off to a good start.”

Mary smiled at him, and quietly walked out the door.

There was complete silence in the jail for a long moment. Then Orin slowly rose out of his chair and walked over to Chris’ cell, his footsteps crunching softly on the unswept floor. He approached the bars, stood there for a second watching Chris, but the man didn’t turn around, still sat hunched over, his head forward and low.

Orin cleared his throat. “Chris?”

A slight movement, the head turned and looked over one shoulder, pained blue eyes under shocks of dark-blond hair. A quick glance, then back again.

But Orin had seen, and asked quietly, “Chris, did you bring the doctor to help that boy?”

More silence, thick, enveloping. Chris didn’t move for a long time. Finally, a small nod.

“Can he really help him?”

Another pause, not quite so long. Then Chris stood up, as if with great effort, and walked around the cot to where Orin stood, facing him through the thick iron bars. He looked at Orin, tired eyes in a weatherbeaten face, and said in a low rasp, “If anyone can help JD, Darcy Thomas can.”

Orin eyed him. “You trust him?”

A slight smile. “With my life, sir.”

Orin nodded, looked Chris up and down with a face that seemed to soften, a little. “Well, for the boy’s sake I hope he can help. Terrible thing to happen to one so young.”

“Yes sir,” Chris responded in an aching voice, almost too low for Orin to hear. “It was a terrible thing that I did.”

Orin’s eyes shot to Chris, startled at the humility in the hardened gunslinger’s voice.

“I saw when I came in,” Chris continued in a quiet whisper that was at once anguished and determined. “Broken glass. Buildings ripped up. People getting shot in the street. It wasn’t just JD I hurt, and I know it. A lot of people been sufferin’ on account of what I done.”

Orin looked down, nodded sadly. It was true.

“But I aim to make up for it,” Chris said in another voice, clearer and stronger, his blue eyes blazing as he stared unflinchingly at the judge. “Any way I can. If I have to sit in here the rest of my life, I’ll do it. If JD walks again, and you don’t think I’ve paid, I’ll stay. You want to sell my goods to pay for what’s been done, go ahead.”

“Well, if I do that, son,” Orin said softly, trying to smile although he was taken aback by the intensity of Chris’ tone, “you won’t have anything left.”

“Won’t matter,” Chris said firmly, his voice breaking only a little. “Not to me.”

The simple sincerity with which these words were spoken made Orin stare at Chris, stare hard as if he were trying to see through him. Chris stared back, unblinking, blue eyes welling over with grief and a tender, newborn strength.

Orin gazed back, convinced. “Jail is supposed to be an opportunity to contemplate one’s misdeeds, ” he said in an almost admiring tone, “Sounds to me like you got a pretty good head start.”

Chris stared at the floor, nodded as his hair fell down over his face.

Orin started to step away from the bars when Chris looked up sharply, said, “Judge, wait.”

Orin stopped.

“The men you hired with me,” Chris said, his eyes blazing with fervor. “They been rode pretty rough the last week. They don’t deserve it. If you could get them right with the town, I’d - I’d be mighty grateful.”

Orin smiled, completely this time. “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Larabee. Your men went a long way towards repairing themselves this morning, and I’m sure that it will continue. The rebuilding’s just begun.”

Chris nodded numbly, watched Orin turn and slowly walk back to his desk and sit down. Sherson and Childers, the two businessmen, were staring at Chris in dumbfounded curiosity, but he ignored them, stood at the bars and tried as hard as he could to see out the window that now showed Four Corners in full, sun-drenched morning splendor. He could see - could just make out - people walking by, sweeping the boardwalks, stopping and talking. There was a small group of people standing in the street outside the jail, pointing and talking, and Chris knew with a sinking feeling they were talking about him. Well, it doesn’t matter. Maybe later it would, after JD was better and the town was fixed and people trusted his men again. Maybe then he’d care what people thought of him, but not now. Now was something else. Reflect. Repair. Regret.

And set things right.

Whatever it takes.

Chris felt the rough iron bars in his hands, turned his hands around them for a few moments, let the feeling dig into his skin. Then he turned his gaze to the outside world once more, and sighed.

The rebuilding had just begun.

  
  


For everyone involved in the work that followed that day, time seemed to pass in a pace that was at once rapid and slow. But thinkgs were finally getting better, so no one complained.

Darcy and Nathan hurried to make the hospital area as efficient and comfortable as possible, and the others willingly helped them in that regard, with the exception of Vin, who was ordered by both Nathan and Darcy to take it easy for at least the next few days, until he’d recovered from the blood loss and injuries of that morning’s fight. The trapper scowled, but Buck laughed and said he’d like to see Vin argue with two such determined-looking sets of eyes. Finally Vin grumbled under his breath, and went off to sleep, Josiah at his side to give the pale, still somewhat shaky former bounty hunter a hand if he needed it. And Darcy and Nathan turned to the work at hand.

. There was a great number of injured, enough to remind Buck and Nathan of the War, but Darcy handled their injuries with such skill and compassion that any doubt that he was really a doctor evaporated like the morning dew, and the townspeople’ tongues were soon wagging as much about the mysterious healer with the strange accent as they were about the black-clad gunslinger who had returned from the dead.

Chris asked Orin to give his gunbelt, hat and black duster to Darcy for safekeeping, since it was silently understood that nobody else would want to touch them. Chris’ return remained undiscussed among the men, although each of them glanced at the brick jailhouse occasionally as they helped the wounded and carried water and bandages. It was an unspoken reality, that none of them wanted to deal with; the uncomfortable clash of happiness over JD’s imminent recovery, and anger over the return of the man who’d injured him. They only had to look in each others’ eyes to know the truth: forgiveness would be slow.

The town was still dazed and perplexed over everything that had happened, but as the men helped with repairs that first bright morning they saw that, perhaps, the little town would battle back, and survive. The soldiers were still about, flushing out hiding outlaws and leading horse-drawn carts laden with the dead and badly wounded. The undertaker shook his head, and telegraphed his brother to come help.

A few hours later enough townspeople had come to help out that Buck and Ezra volunteered to go around town, and see what else could be done. They took their leave of the hospital, and were surprised that a number of the women, and some of the men, said “Thank you” to them as they left. Maybe we won’t be run out on a rail after all, Buck joked, and Ezra smiled, tired but gratified. The first bridges had been built.

There was a lot of damage in the town, but the worst sight was the one that greeted Buck down one of the little side streets: Emmie Walters, sweeping up sad little piles of broken glass and tangled ribbons in front of her notions store, tears stealing down her face as she swept.

Buck walked toward her slowly, so he didn’t frighten her, and tugged his hat as he said, “Mornin’, Miss Walters.”

Emmie jumped a little anyway, then sniffed and wiped at her cheek as she clutched the broom. “Oh - hi, Mr. Wilmington.”

“Anything I can help you with?” Buck asked with a gentle smile, trying not to let his anger show as his eyes scanned the broken window, the inside of her store jumbled and ransacked. Thought of Durning, and was suddenly glad he was dead.

“Oh.” Emmie cast a forlorn look around the broken remains of her business, and shrugged. “I don’t think so. I’m just...” Her slight shoulders drooped, and she sighed, a huge heartfelt sigh of frustration and disappointment. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude, and you’re being so nice. This isn’t your problem I guess, I just don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Well,” Buck said, scratching his head and looking over the broken windowpane. “I reckon you ought to get this window fixed, and clean up the insides some. I could help you with that.”

Emmie turned to face him, her tiny hands still gripping the broom as she shook her head fearfully. “But I don’t have any money, or any way to pay to fix things. And half of my goods are ruined.”

“Aw, don’t worry about money.” Buck laughed, and settled his hat back on his head as he surveyed the splintered wood. “We can fix this. I’ll get Josiah to come look at it sometime today.”

“Oh - ” Emmie smiled, disbelieving at first, but then overjoyed. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Wilmington, that’d be wonderful. How’s Mr. Dunne doing?”

“Just fine, ma’am,” Buck answered as he pulled back from the window and set a dazzling smile on the young woman. “As a matter of fact, I’m hopin’ we have some real good news comin’ about him, before long.”

“Good news?” Emmie looked confused.

“Yes, ma’am,” Buck replied, feeling so happy he could help Emmie and give her good news about JD that he suddenly wanted to give her a kiss. But he knew she’d probably faint, and anyway that wasn’t respectable behavior, so he fought it. “Yes ma’am, we got a doctor lookin’ at him, says he might be all right.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Emmie smiled, mirroring the buoyancy Buck felt in his heart. “Well, tell him I said hello, will you? We all miss him, you know, it just isn’t the same without - well - ” Emmie looked down, twisted her hands on the broom for a moment, blushing, then looked up and blurted, “You know, we’re all real happy you fellas are staying, just so you know. I don’t know if anybody’s told you yet, but we are. Real happy.”

“Well,” Buck leaned back a bit, tilted his hat on his head and smiled so widely his face almost hurt, “Well, thank you kindly, Miss Walters, I’ll pass that along. I got to get goin’, but I’ll be back this afternoon with Josiah and we’ll fix that window for ya, all right?”

“Sure.” Emmie nodded happily and smiled again, and for a moment Buck thought that the broken store behind her, the tattered town, and all the problems and obstacles that still lay in both their paths, disappeared, and for one sweet second there was so much happiness and gratitude in that little street it made Buck want to break into a rowdy bar song. Once again, however, he fought it and tipping his hat to the slender young woman, made his jaunty way down the street in the brilliant morning sunshine, feeling light and joyous and full of hope.

And as soon as he was out of Emmie’s earshot, sang the rowdiest song he knew.

  
  


Later that day, after the more seriously wounded soldiers and outlaws had been taken care of and made comfortable, Darcy took Nathan aside and told him that before anything could be done for JD, he needed a complete history of the boy’s injuries, and the opportunity to examine him more closely. Nathan agreed, and after making sure that the townspeople had everything they needed to run the area, the two men walked back to Nathan’s room, every eye on them as they went.

JD was awake and restless, but didn’t seem too keen on breaking his boredom by being given a medical examination. He was fascinated by Darcy, however, and his seemingly endless questions about Ireland, Europe, and living abroad kept the boy distracted while Darcy looked him over, with Nathan’s help.

Darcy later remarked to Nathan that he shouldn’t have been at all surprised that, as soon as they started sitting JD up and unwinding his bandages, that there had been a knock at the door, and Buck had come in, followed a few minutes later by Josiah and Ezra. Only Vin was absent, still recovering from the events of that morning.

Even without Vin, there were at least four people too many in the examining room, and Darcy herded them all onto the porch, ignoring Buck’s protests and assuring them that he would let them know as soon as he and Nathan were finished, before firmly closing the door.

“Well, how do you like that,” Buck huffed, crossing his arms and glaring at the door. “That doctor fella thinks he can just walk right in and take over. How do you like that.”

“If it doesn’t bother Nathan - ” Josiah smiled, tilting his head toward the door, “ - and it gets JD better, it suits me just fine.”

“Hm,” Buck said, one last time, before eyeing the door and saying, “Well, let’s bug him anyway, just for that one table. Ezra, you got your cards on you?”

One hour and fifty-five dollars later, the door opened and Darcy came out, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up, wiping his hands on a towel, Nathan right behind him. The others all but leapt up from their game, but they didn’t need to ask any questions; one look at Nathan’s beaming face was enough.

But Buck had to ask, he had to hear somebody say it for real. “Well? Whaddya think?”

“I think,” Darcy said as he continued to clean his hands on the towel, “that Mr. Dunne is very fortunate to have the lot of ye as friends, and Mr. Jackson in particular. Those stitches could have been done on one of those sewing machines - ”

“But is he gonna be okay?” Buck asked, almost desperately.

Darcy stopped wiping his hands, and gave the anxious gunslinger a gentle smile. “Set yer mind at ease, Mr. Wilmington. All of ye. With enough time, and patience, and very hard work, yer young man will walk again, and run, and ride. He’s going to be fine.”

Buck gave a wild whoop, and enveloped Darcy in a huge bear hug. The startled physician took the embrace graciously, as the others traded smiles of relief and happiness. Josiah asked, “Can we see him?”

“Uh - “ Darcy stammered as Buck withdrew, not a bit embarrassed. He straightened his clothes and coughed a bit before saying, “Oh, please. I think the lad needs a bit of cheering up after being poked at for an hour.”

Nathan chuckled, and stepped aside as the men filed past them, Buck in the lead. He grinned at Darcy as the Irishman fought to catch his breath and said, “I should have warned ya, doc. Buck’s about as dangerous when he’s happy as he is when he’s ticked off.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Darcy replied lightly, and clapped Nathan on the shoulder as they went back inside.

  
  


Later that afternoon an army wagon came, and the curious in the town came out to see the three businessmen being carted off to Ridge City. Considering what the town had been through, it shouldn’t have caused much of a stir at all. Still, there was a small crowd waiting to see the men who had caused them so much grief. And throw things at them, if they were in the mood.

JD was sitting up in Nathan’s bed, passing time with Buck and Ezra, when there was a soft knock on the door. Buck answered it, and all of the men were mildly surprised to see Tims standing there, a stern-faced soldier just behind him. The businessman turned his hat in his hands, and took a half-step inside the room.

“They’re taking me off to Ridge City now,” he said in a quiet voice. “But the judge said I could come up, and see you guys before I left. Just wanted to - to say goodbye, I guess.”

“Well, how kind of the judge,” Ezra said, rising from his seat and walking over to Tims, extending his hand. “Have a safe journey, Mr. Alderman. I’m very grateful for the services you rendered to us last night and today.”

“Well, it was the least I could do,” Tims replied remorsefully, taking Ezra’s hand. “I feel just awful about what we did.”

“Hey, guess what?” JD piped from the bed, his eyes bright and smiling through his bruises. “I’m going to be okay.”

“Yes, I heard.” Tims smiled, taking another step into the room and putting his hands on the wrought iron footboard. “That’s great. Hey, look me up if you’re ever in New York City. The judge has my address. If Bertha’s still speaking to me, we’ll take you out to see one of the burlesques.”

“Oh, God.” Buck laughed. “You’re corrupting the boy, Mr. Alderman. That’s supposed to be my job.”

“Cut it out, Buck,” JD said in good-natured irritation, and it was close, so close to the way it used to be. Then, flashing a small grin at Tims he said, “Sure. That’d be fun.”

Tims nodded, then felt the soldier’s hand on his shoulder, pulling at him a little. “Well, I guess I got to go...see you guys later, I guess. Thanks for everything.”

“Just a moment, Mr. Alderman,” Ezra said, pausing at the door and pulling a card out of his pocket, writing swiftly on the back. “If you’re ever in St. Louis, please feel free to call on my mother, Maude Standish, at this address. She’s a delightful woman, I assure you, and always eager to make new acquaintances.”

“Oh,” Tims said curiously, taking the card and frowning at it. “Thanks.”

“She can also instruct you in the fine art of poker,” Ezra said with a cagey smile, “and if your associates are any indication of the company you must keep, you’ll be winning every hand you sit down to inside of a week.”

“Oooh,” Tims said, more interested this time, and grinned back as the soldier began to tug at him more insistently. “Gosh, thanks, Mr. Standish. I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

“Keep that newfound integrity, Mr. Alderman,” Ezra said as the others waved from inside the room, and Tims waved back, “And I promise you it will turn out just fine.”

  
  


The saloon that night was livelier than it had been all week, and everyone owed it to the startling events of the previous twenty-four hours. People were coming out of their houses again, reassured at the soldiers patrolling the streets, and the knowledge that the judge was in town. And nowhere was livelier than the table in the corner, and its tired, happy occupants.

JD was asleep, in his own room at last. Darcy declared that the boy would heal faster in his own surroundings, and he and Josiah had helped JD back to his place earlier that evening, again using the back ways so JD wouldn’t be gawked at. The youth’s room, like any teenage boy’s, was a wreck, and musty from being unused for almost a week, but, undaunted, Buck and Nathan had cleaned the place up some, and JD seemed to relax visibly when he was finally settled in his own sheets and blankets. Nathan mixed him a tonic in case the boy had any pain, but that wasn’t a problem at all; JD was yawning even before they were done settling him in, and was asleep five minutes later. Nathan and Darcy both volunteered to stay with the youth for a while, and no one argued. The two men were clearly tired, and Nathan seemed fascinated by Darcy’s knowledge, and seemed to want to talk to him on subjects the other men knew would bore them to tears. So they left them alone, and went to the saloon.

Once there, it was no surprise that soon Ezra had a lively poker game going, and the place was bright with noise and activity. It was as if a pall had been lifted from the gambler. Ezra’s anger and gloom were gone, at least temporarily, and he positively sparkled.

The clock chimed ten-thirty when Josiah, who had been very quiet, folded his cards, leaned forward and said in a low voice to Ezra, “Have the others meet me in the church sanctuary in an hour and a half. Vin too, if he’s up to it. We got some things that need discussin’.”

Ezra glanced up from his hand, saw the look of dark worry in Josiah’s eyes, looked back down at his cards with cool disdain. “You mean concerning Mr. Larabee?”

Josiah nodded. “Gotta lot of things to clear the air over. I’d rather do it now than later.”

Ezra made a face, looked Josiah up and down. “Then I take it you are going to talk to our onetime associate?”

Josiah picked up his coat, said simply, “Yep.”

Buck hadn’t been paying attention, had been studying his cards, and when Josiah walked around the table asked, “Leaving so soon, Josiah? I thought you’d want to celebrate till at least midnight.”

“Long night, Buck,” Josiah said as he pulled his coat on and walked by the gunslinger for the door, his eyes on the red brick building across the street. He turned his head back to the table for a second, paused as he looked into Ezra’s eyes, into the hatred for Chris he saw there. Then he turned and added, “And I’m afraid it’s about to get a whole lot longer.”

  
  


JD’s room was silent and still, except for the two men sitting in wooden chairs by a small table in one corner, watching the third one curled up in the narrow bed fast asleep. A single oil lamp, turned very low, provided dim light, and in it Nathan studied the mysterious Irishman who had come out of nowhere and promised miracles. He liked Darcy, and wanted to trust him. If what he said was true, there would be no home for JD, no fruitless journey to San Francisco, no wheelchairs. He would get his life back. It was almost too good to be true.

They had sat in that room for three hours, sometimes in silence, sometimes in whispered conversation. Now they simply regarded the night in contemplation, quietly, the calming afterglow of an unbelievable day. Nathan looked over at Darcy, who was gazing at JD as the boy lay sleeping on his right side, fringes of black hair falling over his bruised face, over the black stitches and fading welts. Nathan tried to decipher Darcy’s expression, and decided he couldn’t. It was sad, but a little frightened and angry too. It was a mixture Nathan remembered seeing on his mama’s face when she looked at some people after they got whipped. That was the closest thing he could think of.

The window behind them was open, a light breeze blew in. A horse and wagon went by, soft hoofbeats in the summer darkness. Nathan stirred in his chair and asked quietly, “Mr. Thomas?”

“Hm?” Darcy answered, taking his eyes reluctantly off JD to face Nathan.

“Did you say you and Chris came here together? That you brought him here?”

Darcy blinked, then nodded, propping one elbow on the table and leaning his head on it as he spoke. “Mm-hmm. Yes, I did.”

“Well, pardon my askin’, but why? I mean, did he tell you what he did? Why he was runnin’?”

Darcy sighed, nodded again, his eyes softly focusing again on JD. “Yes, Mr. Jackson, that he did. Although I didn’t know the depth of it till today.”

Nathan’s eye turned a little harder and he shook his head as he regarded the sleeping youth in front of them. “Goes a lot deeper than that. He nearly killed that boy. I heard there were bounties on his head. I thought maybe you were here to pick up on one.”

“No, Mr. Jackson,” Darcy said with a small smile as he looked down and smoothed out his coat. “I have enough in monetary means to sustain me. My interest in Mr. Larabee is simply to help a fellow human bein’ find peace, and return him to his friends.”

Nathan leaned forward onto the table, glancing quickly to JD to make sure he hadn’t awakened the youth. “Well, yeah, but why? I mean, why make it your problem? You saw what he did to JD. I ain’t so sure his friends want him back. Buck and Ezra sure don’t.”

Darcy returned Nathan’s look. “What about ye?”

Nathan paused, leaned back in his chair and sighed, a long, drawn-out, exhausted sigh. “There’s a good man in there, someplace. Saved my hide, got to admit that, and I reckon he’d do it again. Knew he had a bad side, just...never thought I’d see it like this.”

Darcy nodded sympathetically, said softly, “One man’s brutality to another. Sickens me every time I see it.”

Nathan looked at his new friend, a little surprised at his understanding. Then he said, “Reminds me of the war, of bein’ a slave. Ain’t no reason to it, no justice. An’ JD’s just a kid.”

Darcy looked at Nathan over the table. “Ye were a slave, then?”

Nathan nodded, his eyes turning dark and bitter. “Too long ago to care about, till something like this happens. Then it just stirs it all up again, how it felt to watch one man kill another and not be able to do nothin’ about it.”

Darcy nodded slowly, the pipe at his lips.

Nathan hunkered back in the chair, his expression growing steadily angrier as he studied JD’s bruised face, the black stitches, the still-red cuts and abrasions. After a moment he shook his head in disgust. “Told Josiah once I had some questions for Chris when he got back. Things I always wanted to ask a man who would do that to a fellow human bein’.”

Darcy nodded again. “I’m sure ye have a lot to say to Mr. Larabee.”

“You got that right,” Nathan said hotly as he leaned forward, his eyes kindling as he spoke. “You see how bad that boy is messed up? Four days ago he wasn’t even awake. Three days ago he didn’t know where he was. And up until this afternoon, he thought he was gonna be crippled for life. Yeah, I got some things to say.”

Darcy cocked his head toward Nathan, the pipe still in his mouth. “So when are ye goin’ over?”

Nathan paused, blinked, stared at Darcy for a moment. Then he shook his head and leaned back in the chair.

“Can’t do it now,” he said firmly, fingering his cigar and staring at it. His voice became tight as he spoke, as he struggled to control it. “Do it now, I just might forget myself. I’d look at Chris, see JD’s broken ribs, that bleedin’ wound on his head. I’d hear him, that first night when he was screamin’ an’ tryin’ to hide cause he thought we were gonna hurt him. Cause he thought I was some bad man from the Boston coal docks.”

“Ah, sweet Jesus.” Darcy sighed, gazing at JD mournfully.

Nathan shook his head again, slow and sure. “I can’t waste time bein’ mad at Chris now, JD needs me bein’ calm and together, not bustin’ with rage. And right now I couldn’t talk to that man about what he did without wantin’ to tear him apart. But one of these days, when JD’s gettin’ better and don’t need me to be strong for him no more? That man’s gonna hear from me, Mr. Thomas.”

Darcy looked at him, and saw the age-old fire burning in Nathan’s eyes as the former slave stared at him in bitter earnest.

“I promise you that.”

Darcy stared back at Nathan, and the other man was surprised to see not an argument, not fear or recrimination in those soft Irish eyes, but...compassion? Agreement? Nathan was about to ask about it when there was a soft knock at the door, and both men looked toward it curiously.

After a moment, the door slowly opened and Ezra walked in, his normally unreadable manner visibly tense.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said in a low voice when he was close enough. He regarded JD and said in similar tones, “How is Mr. Dunne?”

“Just fine,” Nathan responded, clearing his throat and getting up so Ezra didn’t have to speak any louder than he had to. Noting Ezra’s agitated manner, he said, “What’s up with you? Why’re you so nervous?”

“Mr. Sanchez has gone to visit with our mutual friend,” Ezra said, in tones that suggested strongly that he didn’t approve. “He wants us to meet him in the church when he’s through.”

Nathan looked at JD, then at Darcy.

“I’ll watch over the boy till you return,” Darcy whispered with a wave of his hand.

Nathan nodded, leaned over his chair and picked up his coat. He paused to glance at Darcy and said, “He wakes up, you know where the tonic is.”

Darcy nodded confidently.

“All right.” Nathan sighed, putting his coat on and preparing to follow Ezra out the door. Shaking his head at Darcy he said forebodingly, “Hope you knew what you were doin’, bringin’ Chris back here, doc. He ain’t in for an easy time, by a long shot.”

“Nor should he be, Mr. Jackson,” Darcy said grimly as he looked at the slight form dozing in the small bed, barely visible in the low, guttering light. “Nor should he be.”

  
  


The jail was dark and quiet when Josiah quietly turned the handle of the door and went inside. There was a single oil lamp glowing on Orin’s desk as he sat reading some papers. The older man looked up at Josiah as he came in, nodded to him in greeting. Josiah glanced back at Chris’ cell, but it was too dim to see very much; a dark shadow against a darker wall. That was all.

“Evening, Mr. Sanchez,” Orin said in a quiet voice. “Can I help you?”

Josiah peered into the darkness again, tried hard to see Chris, but it was very hard...“Was wonderin’ if I might have a word with the prisoner.”

“You might,” Orin said, glancing toward the dim little cell. “But he hasn’t said much since this morning. If you’d like, I can step outside and get some air.”

Josiah smiled a little. “You trustin’ a renegade gunslinger, judge? Not very bright, in some people’s opinions.”

“Well, if I listened to some people’s opinions,” Orin said as he stood and picked up his hat, “a whole lot of people would be dead right now. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Josiah nodded his head, and the only sound in the jail was the quiet click of the door. In the heavy silence it thundered like a cannon, and then there was only silence again, silence and a melancholy darkness that Josiah fought as he walked the distance between the desk and the shadowed cell. He thought a moment, went back, and picked up the oil lamp. And walked toward the cell again.

Chris was sitting on the cot, elbows on his knees, hands folded together under his chin, staring into space. The low light of the oil lamp made him look ghostly, like a waxwork, and Josiah thought of the last time he’d really seen Chris, that terrible night after JD’s beating. Then, Chris had been haggard, wild with remorse, soaking wet from the rain. And now -

\- now he still looked haggard and remorseful, but quiet, almost eerily so. Josiah was used to Chris Larabee, the tightly wound watchspring. This man looked almost...relaxed.

Josiah quietly set the lamp on the floor, picked up the keyring that hung on a peg nearby. He looked at Chris, who hadn’t yet turned his head, and cleared his throat.

A long pause, deep breaths. Then a quiet voice, sad and resigned. “Yeah.”

Josiah knew Chris well enough to know what that single word meant, opened the jail door and stepped inside. He sat down next to Chris, leaned forward so they could see each other’s faces. And waited.

There was another long pause, and Chris didn’t move to look in Josiah’s direction as he asked, “How’s JD?”

“Better,” Josiah answered, shivering as he recalled their last conversation, almost the same question,but a far less welcome answer. “Mr. Thomas looked him over, figures he can get him walking again. Just a matter of time. But he thinks JD’s going to be all right.” After a pause he added, “Vin’s all right too, just lost a lot of blood. Thought you’d want to know.”

Chris sighed deeply, leaned forward and ran his hands through his hair, and Josiah saw him shudder. But he didn’t say anything.

Josiah looked down at Chris’ hands, still scabbed and scarred but healing now, just like they all were. Very quietly he said, “Mary told us you brought Mr. Thomas here, for JD. That’s going to make a big difference, Chris. Might buy you some charity among folks who otherwise wouldn’t be so likely to give it.”

“You mean Buck,” Chris said, a raspy whisper. His eyes came halfway to Josiah’s then, gaunt and haunted.

The preacher met them, and nodded. “And some others.”

“Josiah, what’s been happening?” Chris asked in the same soft whisper, regarding his friend with an imploring expression. “Tell me. I want to know what happened, after I left.”

Josiah cocked his head, thought a moment before saying, “Some of it isn’t pretty. Downright monstrous, in fact.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Chris replied, and Josiah saw sincerity in that drawn face. “I want to know.”

Josiah waited a beat, then said, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you what’s been happening here, if you tell me what you’ve been up to these last four days.”

Chris winced, looked at the floor.

“Because,” Josiah said in his deep, even tones, “I don’t think the Chris Larabee that left is the Chris Larabee that came back.”

Chris brought his head up, peered at the oil lamp for a moment, heartbroken blue eyes framed by drooping fringes of dark blond hair. Then he slowly shook his head and said softly, “I’m not sure. But you might be right.”

“You meet your demons?” Josiah asked in a low, soft rumble.

Chris stared at the oil lamp, nodded slowly. “Yeah. Some.”

“They gone?”

Another look at the floor, and Chris bit his lower lip before saying in a voice that was thick with regrets and tears, “Don’t think they’ll ever be gone.”

Josiah sighed and sat back against the brick wall, regarded the eclipsed form of Chris, outlined in the lantern’s glow next to him. There was a halo around him, framing the drooping shoulders, the unkempt hair, the sorrowful profile over folded, torn hands. Maybe the demons would never be gone. In the name of God, do not torment me...

Then Chris turned to Josiah, and in the reflected light the preacher saw him give a grim smile, saw his eyes light with a new determination as he said, “But I think I got ‘em runnin’.”

Josiah looked at Chris and smiled, slowly, felt a grim pride and didn’t try to hide it.

Chris returned the smile and said in a quiet voice, “You first.”

  
  


JD stirred in the warm blankets, snuggled into them for a moment before the dull ache in his collarbone pulled him away from the heavy arms of sleep and rolled him into consciousness, and pain. With a small, muffled groan he opened his eyes a little, and looked around his room.

His room. He was finally back, sleeping in his own bed, just like before...for a brief, drowsy moment JD pretended that the attack had never happened, that it had all been some horrible dream and that in a moment Buck was going to come bouncing through the door and yell at him for dropping off when there was a kickass poker game going on at the saloon. A dream...it had all been a dream...

Then JD tried to move his left arm, and the dream shattered into sharp, jagged slivers of reality. He gasped before he could stop himself, and opened his eyes as wide as they would go.

The room was dim, so dim JD could hardly see it, but someone was moving in that gloom and for an instant JD was afraid. Then he heard a soft Irish lilt that he recognized say, “It’s just me, JD, it’s Darcy Thomas. Are ye hurtin’?”

JD looked up, squinted at the tall, dark form that was bending over him, and for some reason he thought of his mama, relived vague memories of nighttime scares, soft noises, someone bending close. JD thought for an instant of a few days before, when he had been convinced his mother was still alive, and suddenly he felt like crying that she wasn’t, he hurt so much. Hurt -

Stop it. Grow up for heaven’s sake. JD looked up at Darcy’s anxious face and shook his head, mentally kicking himself for being such a big baby.

“Ye sure?” Darcy asked again, backing off a little but still hovering.

JD nodded, pushing himself up in the bed a little to show this doctor how fit he really was. “I’m all right.” he said sleepily, and really tried not to wince as the pain tore his collarbone and set it on fire. He wanted to be better, really wanted it, and thought in his half-dreaming state that pretending would make it so. If only this Darcy didn’t notice he was really hurting...

Darcy stood up, backed off a few more feet, but JD could see that he was still looking at him. “All right, then. Mr. Jackson’s gone out for a bit, and he left me to watch over ye, if ye don’t mind.”

Nathan went out? Where? JD’s eyes opened, really opened now, and he struggled to sit up in the bed as Darcy reached over and turned up the oil lamp.

“I don’t mind.” JD yawned, rubbing his eyes as they adjusted to the slightly higher light. “Did he go get something to eat?”

“’Fraid not,” Darcy replied in a low voice, sitting back down in one of the wooden chairs. “They’re havin’ a meetin’ over at the church, and he had to go. He’ll be back before too long.”

JD nodded a little, touched his bruised face tentatively. He hated to be so helpless in front of this man, who was a doctor and had been to Europe and probably lived the kind of life JD had only read about. He wanted to show off, strut like Buck did when he tried to impress women, but he couldn’t. He was stuck in this stupid bed, and he hated it. And all because of...

JD touched his face again, frowned. “Are they talking about Chris?”

Darcy sighed, nodded. “D’ye want me to take ye over?”

A quick flush of fear overtook JD, and he thought taken over, that means carried around like a bag of flour. That would be so ... he shook his head and said, “No, that’s okay. I...I don’t know what I’d say anyway.”

His collarbone felt like someone was taking it off with a saw. Swallowing the pain, he looked around the room to distract himself, noticed a small box on the table next to Darcy. It was hinged, and JD recognized it as a dageurreotype case. Peering at it curiously he asked, “Who’s that?”

Darcy glanced down at the case, picked it up and handed it to JD. “That’s me wife, Reddie, and me little daughter, Katie.”

“Oh.” JD took the case, tilted the images in the low light to see them better. He smiled at the likenesses. “She’s pretty.”

Darcy’s own smile was sad as he pulled at his coat. “She was, Mr. Dunne, very pretty. And a wonderful woman.”

JD realized Darcy was speaking of the woman in the picture in the past tense, and thought, she must be dead. A sadness came over him, slight at first, sympathy for another’s loss. Then he glanced at Darcy, saw the faraway melancholy in the man’s eyes as he looked at the plastic case in JD’s hand, and suddenly JD found himself fighting back tears. His mother’s face once again came to his mind, and JD realized that this woman had the same look about her, someone who made things all better just by being around, and Darcy had lost her. Lost her, and would never get her back, and JD took a deep breath to stem the tears and the mounting pain in his shoulder because Jesus, what if this Darcy saw him crying, for pete’s sake. But he missed his mother, dammit, and he was sure Darcy missed his wife, and it was awful to be alone in the world and hurting and have no one to look after you and her eyes reminded JD of his mother’s, a look that said come here and let me hold you, it’ll be all right, but she couldn’t hold him, couldn’t make it all right, no one could, and it was so unfair and it hurt hurt HURT -

When JD blinked again, Darcy was bending over him and he found that he had slid halfway down the bed. Startled, he asked, “What happened?”

“Ye passed out, Mr. Dunne,” Darcy said matter-of-factly. “And nearly broke me dageurreotype case in the process.”  
“Oh - ” JD noticed Darcy had the case in his hand, and swallowed sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“No cause for apologies, son,” Darcy said, deftly pocketing the case and standing up. “But when a member of the medical profession asks ye if ye’re in pain, an honest answer is usually the best one. Saves one from embarrassin’ episodes, you know.”

“Uh, right,” JD muttered, chagrined. “Thanks.”

Darcy smiled a little, and turning around, came back with a glass of something JD instantly recognized. “Now, I don’t want ye movin’ a muscle until ye’ve had some of this tonic. It’ll ease the pain and help ye get back to sleep.”

JD nodded, felt the fiery burn of his mending collarbone and decided not to argue. Darcy lifted his head a little, and JD obediently swallowed what he could of the bitter tonic before Darcy tilted the glass back and set it down on the table.

“Now,” the Irishman said, standing over JD, “can ye get yerself back in all right, or do ye need a hand? And don’t be handin’ me a wagonload about it either.”

“Ah - “ JD sized Darcy up, surrendered. “I guess, if you want.”

Darcy nodded in satisfaction, and helped JD use his one good arm to right himself in the bed again.

“I feel so stupid,” JD groused as he pulled the covers back over himself. “I hate being so damn helpless.”

“But it will pass, Mr. Dunne,” Darcy assured him as he pushed the pillows so the boy could lean against them comfortably. “We’ll make sure of that.”

JD sighed and lay back against the pillows, eyeing Darcy as the man sat back down. “You really think I’m going to walk again?”

“Oh, I’m countin’ on it,” Darcy said with a smile. “I’m stakin’ me life on it, ye see.”

JD was puzzled. “You are?”

Darcy chuckled darkly. “Mr. Dunne, I’ve met yer friends. If I fail t’ set ye walkin’ I doubt the vultures’ll find me remains.”

JD smiled. “They can be kind of scary, but they’re all right.”

“They’re a damn sight better than all right.” Darcy commented.

There was a few moments of silence, and JD blinked slowly. He was starting to feel drowsy, and the awful fire in his collarbone was dimming to a mere smoulder. Sighing sleepily, he stared at the wall and said, “They were the best friends I ever had.”

“Ye still have them, Mr. Dunne,” Darcy said softly, leaning forward.

JD felt like he should shake his head, and did. “Not like before. When Chris was still here, I mean when - before - ” JD paused, pursed his lips. Finally he sighed, gave up and closed his eyes. “We had a lot of fun.”

Darcy’s voice came from a long way away. “Chris told me ye did.”

That’s right, you came back with him, JD thought but didn’t say it, that was too much work. Instead he found himself saying the simplest utterance of his heart, the first thing he thought of.

“I wanna ride again.”

“Ye will, JD,” Darcy said reassuringly, from still farther away. But - but he didn’t understand.

“No.” JD fought through the fog of the tonic to shake his head, but he kept his eyes closed. “No, like before. All of us. Not just me.”

A pause, the quiet getting softer, big puffy billows of it settling over him like a fountain of cotton. Then, Darcy again: “That’s what ye want, is it?”

JD felt himself nod, the cotton was getting heavier. “More than anything.”

The silence continued to grow, become thicker and heavier, and JD began to drift into it, felt the pain in his shoulder dissolving, easing, evaporating. It was getting hard to care about anything, but in his sleepiness JD remembered a question he had, and it didn’t bother him now as much as he thought it should but he asked it anyway, licked his lips and whispered to the cottony darkness, “Did Chris ever say anything about me?”

At least, that’s what JD thought he asked. He wasn’t quite sure, but it must have been close, because Darcy said something that sounded like, “All the time, son. What he did tore him up inside, he wanted ye to know that. Made him want to die, until I helped him back here.”

Someone tore Chris up? No , wait a minute...damn, that tonic was really working on him. The pain in his collarbone was tiny now, a tiny little blue dot somewhere in the corner of the ceiling, and JD felt himself floating away, beyond pain and care. Was Darcy saying Chris was sorry? Was Chris sorry? Why did Chris want to die? Not because of me...I don’t matter that much to Chris...do I?...Too complicated to think about...just sleep now, JD, ask your questions in the morning...

Okay, mama, good night, JD heard some childish part of him say, and the soft darkness wrapped around him, welcome and comforting, a mother’s arms. JD burrowed into it gratefully and went to sleep, leaving behind only the quiet nighttime darkness and a man sitting within it, holding a small photograph, thinking about the future, his and his new friends’. And remembering.

  
  


Josiah was prepared for the expressions on his friends’ faces long before he walked up the front steps of the church and pushed open one of the double doors to go inside. He knew what he’d find in the eyes of the comrades he’d come to know so well, knew also the fight that would be on his hands before the night was over. Knew, and was ready for it.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

They were all there, he saw right away, lounging around the sanctuary waiting for him to come back from seeing Chris. All except JD, of course. Josiah breathed a sigh of relief that the boy was not there, for he’d had a nightmarish thought that maybe JD would insist on being present, and Josiah knew that the youth was just not ready for the strife that might erupt that night. Perhaps none of them were.

But they were all present, nonetheless, even Vin, who was sitting on a large box next to one of the windows. Damn, he still looks pale. He ought to be resting. But no, of course Vin wouldn’t be resting, not now - this was too important to him. Buck was nearby, leaning against a wall with his arms folded and an uncertain scowl on his face. On a pew next to him, Ezra sat comfortably, shuffling his deck of cards, his eyes distant and icy. And on the other side of the door Nathan stood, looking out the window as if he didn’t want to be there at all.

Vin spoke first, his voice low and tired and a little worried. “You talk to him?”

Josiah slowly looked around the room, saw every eye on him and alert. Finally he nodded, meeting their eyes almost in a dare. “Yeah. Yeah, I talked to him.”

“And what did the illustrious Mr. Larabee have to say for himself?” Ezra asked, his normally languid tones dripping with acid.

Josiah sighed, walked into the sanctuary and took his hat off, brushed his hand through his hair wearily. Finally stopping in the middle of the room he looked around once again and said, “A whole lot of things, none of them good. Never seen a man lower in my life.”

“How heartbreaking,” Ezra said in a sarcastic voice, his eyes never leaving his cards.

Josiah ignored him, focused on the rest of the group. “Now I called you all here because we need to talk about what it means, Chris being back. I know some of us aren’t feeling too kindly toward him, but we’re the law and now that we got most of the town on our side it’d be a damn shame to lose ‘em again because we’re at each other’s throats.”

Nathan looked away from the window, at Buck. The gunslinger was staring at the floor, his arms still folded, his face as dark as midnight on Halloween. Nathan then looked at Josiah and said, “So what’d Chris say?”

Josiah glanced at Buck, at Ezra and Vin, then finally back to Nathan and said softly, “Mostly that he was sorry.”

Buck grunted.

“And he asked about JD,” Josiah continued, as if Buck hadn’t said anything, “Wanted to know how he was, what he could do for him. Then he wanted to know how we were getting along here.”

“And did you entertain him with lively tales about our adventures with the outlaws?” Ezra asked lightly, flipping the cards through his fingers as he spoke, “Or perhaps he was more interested in hearing about Mr. Dunne’s struggles for a normal life - ”

“That’s enough, Ezra,” Vin said, in a voice that was weary, but sharper than Josiah had ever heard from the tracker before. They all paused to look at him

Josiah saw Vin blink slowly, shake his head. _He’s frustrated from feeling so weak from his wound. His fuse is shorter..._

Ezra glanced up from his pack of cards, and his eyes gleamed hard as jade as he spoke. “Mr. Tanner, I was not being facetious, I assure you. But since Mr. Larabee wishes to know the story of what we’ve endured in his absence, he may as well know the whole story, and the more painful to him, in my opinion, the better. Why should he be spared when Mr. Dunne was not?”

Vins’ head came back, his eyes snapping blue fire. “Man came back, locked himself in the jail, deserves better than to stabbed in the back.”

“Excuse me?” Ezra asked with a sneer, sitting up and giving Vin an incredulous look. “My friend, Mr. Larabee deserves nothing from me but contempt. Unlike...” He looked around coolly. “Some people, I am not swayed by a show of sorrow that is as transient as the morning dew. Mr. Larabee’s contrition is borne by his deep desire to not be lynched for the murderer he is.”

“And how do you know that, Ezra?” Josiah asked evenly.

The gambler lazed back against the pew, threw one arm over it casually. “Mr. Sanchez, you are talking to an old hand at the conning game. There is no one more penitent than the captured thief, no more tearful words than those spoken by one knowing he faces the hangman’s gallows. Mr. Larabee knows that to keep the town - or any of us, for that matter - from stringing him up, he must profess deepest sorrow over his actions, and make a show of repenting them. And he has done so.”

Josiah nodded. Vin was glaring at Ezra with a painfully impatient expression.

“However,” Ezra continued conversationally, “give this charade a week or two, and I wager we see a different Chris Larabee. Let the army pull out, let judge Travis leave the jail, let enough time go by so that people forget. God willing, let us see Mr. Dunne restored to health. Before then our penitent thief will know the eyes of the judges are no longer on him, and he will cry to be let free like a thousand banshees.”

Vin’s look was uncharacteristically ominous as he stood. “You’ve seen men that do that.”

Ezra’s look was even more ominous. “I’ve BEEN men that do that.”

“Oh, stop it, you two,” Nathan said crossly, walking away from the window and stepping closer to Josiah. He looked at his friend earnestly. “So what are you sayin’, Josiah? What do you want us to do?”

Josiah walked around in a small circle for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Finally he stopped and said, “This past week has been rough on all of us. Now, things are starting to look up, and folks’ll be looking to us to make sure it keeps going that way. What’s more, JD’s gonna need all of us pullin’ together for him, and that ain’t gonna work if we’re at odds. So...I’m proposing that we put our differences aside, before they cause us more troubles than Concho Charles and a million like him.”

“You mean forget,” Buck said in a harsh, savage whisper, scarcely moving from where he stood except to raise his head and drill his eyes into Josiah’s soul.

“No,” Josiah said, shaking his head as if to ward off Buck’s scathing anger. “Not forget. To hear Chris tell it, he don’t want us to forget. And forgivin’s gonna be tough for all of us, but...the way I see it, it’s the only way we’re gonna come out of this whole thing in one piece.”

Vin was nodding in a small, uncertain way, his eyes trying to focus on the floor, but Nathan was back to staring out the window and Ezra and Buck both had thunderously brooding looks on their faces. Josiah tensed. If a storm was going to come, it was going to come now.

Nathan spoke first, shaking his head as he looked away from the window. “I don’t see how, Josiah. What he did, it wasn’t right. It wasn’t, and you know it.”

“I do,” Josiah admitted. “But I also know the lengths to which Chris is going to redeem himself. I’ve seen his eyes. There’s another man behind them.”

“Well, he’d have to have the Lord Himself in there to convince me,” Ezra said archly, glaring at his cards as he spoke. “And even then I would ask for a signed document to attest to his righteousness.”

There was an almost audible crackle in the air. Josiah glanced at Vin, but the former bounty hunter was keeping his silence, despite his lips turning white from pressing them together. But his body was coiled, tight as an overwound clock even in his weakened condition, or maybe because of it. He would not hold still for long.

Buck was shaking his head, anger flying off him like drops of water. “I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing, Josiah.” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “You saw what he did, dammit. How can you just walk away from something like that?”

“Didn’t say it was easy,” Josiah said softly, shaking his head. “Just said it’s the only way.”

Nathan shook his head again, went back to staring out the window.

“Of course, there is one small detail you are overlooking here, Mr. Sanchez,” Ezra said mildly, regarding various cards he pulled out of his deck, “And that is the citizens of this fair town. Even if we put on a show of pardon, I doubt Mr. Larabee will escape their wrath for long.”

“I know,” Josiah rumbled, walking around the room slowly. “But they won’t do anything as long as the judge is here. And if we present a united front, they’ll see us standing between them and Chris. Most likely they’ll back off.”

“Or take us all down,” Ezra muttered to the queen he’d just pulled from his deck.

Vin turned and looked at him, and Josiah noticed it. _Careful Ezra, Jesus, look at Vin’s eyes._ Wild, like a wounded bear’s.

Nathan saw it too, stepped forward with a hand stretched toward his friend. “Hey, Vin, you’re still gettin’ over bein’ shot. Let’s get you - ”

“I’m fine, dammit.” Vin growled, giving Nathan a combative glare that made the healer stop in his tracks. The wounded bear was still fighting, for Chris.

Ezra met the Vin’s gaze evenly, unafraid, and said in a low voice, “Come now, Mr. Tanner, if you were a citizen of this town what would you do? A man gets himself intoxicated, nearly kills someone, and then seeks refuge behind steel bars? Would you not seek swifter justice?”

“He’s doin’ his time,” Vin said in a voice as brittle as spun glass. “Leave him alone.”

Ezra’s eyes narrowed, rising to the challenge he saw in Vin’s eyes. “But what if it were Mr. Larabee who had been injured, Mr. Tanner, would you be so quick to coddle his attacker? If it had been him you’d found unconscious and bleeding in an alleyway, would forgiveness come so easily?”

Josiah felt his skin tighten, and his hand went instinctively to his belt, even though he wasn’t wearing his gun. Buck was watching Vin and Ezra too, his eyes round and glassed, remembering. He almost looked sick.

Vin’s head lowered like a bull about to charge, and he glared at Ezra, but didn’t speak.

The gambler shook his head. “You see, Mr. Tanner, it makes a difference whose ox is gored, doesn’t it? Picture your dearest friend lying half-dead in the cold street while his assailant staggers off to collapse somewhere in a drunken heap. Now picture him bruised and broken, unable to remember who his friends are and confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his long, miserable, tortured life.”

Nathan was watching Vin’s face, watching it become paler and wilder; his eyes flicked to Josiah’s nervously.

“Now, Mr. Tanner,” Ezra drawled in lazy, arrogant tones. “Say **I** did the deed. Say I bashed the side of Mr. Larabee’s head in, and just walked away with his blood on my hands. Would you let me simply say ‘I’m sorry’? Or - ” His eyes became venomous slits. “Would you like to see me dead?”

Vin took a step toward Ezra, and Josiah and Nathan both came forward, their hands ready to drag the two men apart if it came to that. Buck didn’t move, but stared at the men in front of him, shocked.

Vin stopped, looked around as if stunned at what he was doing. Then his body visibly relaxed, and he let out a loud breath and ran his hands over his face. When he took them away his face was calmer, although his eyes popped and snapped like a January fire. He was back to himself, but still infuriated. Josiah felt his heart crumple, closed his eyes for a moment against what he was seeing. The group was coming apart, their friendships were coming apart, and he didn’t know what to do.

Vin collected himself for a moment longer, then raised his eyes and glared at Ezra, said in a low voice, “Don’t think you should be puttin’ yourself in Chris’ place, Ezra. You been there once before, and as I recall we didn’t even get a sorry out of you.”

Josiah opened his eyes again, frowned. Something was out of place...

Ezra scowled, his face turning maroon with indignation. “You would compare my - my momentary lapse of judgment to that man’s act of attempted murder? How dare you - ”

It was at that moment that Josiah suddenly asked, “Where’s Buck?”

Ezra stopped, blinked, turned around.

Buck wasn’t standing at the wall anymore.

“He walked out while y’all were arguing,” Nathan commented as he walked to Vin’s side and put a hand on his friend’s arm. “Guess every man has his limits.”

Vin looked at Ezra as Nathan pulled him back to the box by the window, but his look was one of chagrin and embarrassment at his bickering, and he said nothing else.

Josiah shook his head and glared at Vin and Ezra as he walked to the door.

“You two girls don’t go anywhere,” he muttered disgustedly. “I’ll be right back.”

  
  


Buck hadn’t gone far. In fact, he was at the side of the church, leaning against it and bending far forward, his head in his hands. He started at the sound of Josiah’s footsteps coming around the corner, and quickly brought himself up and grunted.

“Had to catch some air, there,” he muttered in embarrassment. “Gettin’ mighty close, you know what I mean.”

Josiah cocked his head. “You all right, Buck?”

“Who, me?” Buck’s mask went up in a flash, and he shrugged hugely and waved his hands. “Course, I’m right as the mail, why wouldn’t I be? Ain’t everything lookin’ up, I mean, JD, he’s gonna be okay, that’s - that’s - “

“It’s a miracle, all right,” Josiah said cautiously, walking toward Buck slowly. “But you’ve had some mighty big changes all of a sudden, and now Chris comes back. Am I right in assuming you don’t know quite how to deal with that?”

“Deal?” Buck barked the word. “Hell, Josiah, I’m a tumblin’ tumbleweed, ain’t no dealin’ about it, you know, it just sorta happened. Just go with the flow, he’s back, you know, that’s...” Buck’s head wavered, and he blinked, looked across the street. “He’s just right over there, not even too far away, you think he can hear what we’re sayin’?”

Another step closer. “Buck - ”

“You know, I wonder if he can,” Buck said curiously, putting his hands on his hips, his breathing getting deeper. “Because if I thought he could, you know what I’d do? I’d holler out what I got to say to him from here, just so I’d never have to get closer. Men like him, they kill you if you get too close, and I found that out the hard way, and so did JD. Now maybe that boy’s gonna be fine and - and you know, maybe he ain’t, cause he’s had nightmares, times when he thinks he’s back when Chris beat him up? You know?”

“I know, Buck,” Josiah said softly, seeing the increasingly desperate look in Buck’s eyes. He stopped coming closer, waited.

“And I thought,” Buck nattered on, as if Josiah hadn’t said anything. “I thought he’s gonna be okay, he’ll get past this just like I did, I had nightmares too, after Sarah and Adam died and Chris cut me off. He will, he’ll get past all this, and he’s gonna walk again, and we’re gonna ride just like we did before, cause that’s all that boy wants right now, more than walking even. He wants things to go back the way they were.”

Josiah nodded. “We all want that.”

Buck was nodding, but said, “Cept it ain’t gonna happen. You know why?”

Josiah shook his head, getting more worried with every syllable his friend uttered. Why did his eyes look so black?

Buck paused, blinked again, and his speech became fast and high and almost desperately thin. “Because - because when Ezra was talkin’ in there about Chris gettin’ beat up, and lyin’ in the alley? I saw it, in my mind, just like JD, Chris covered in blood and half-dead, he was my best friend once, and now - “ He paused, and his face went blank, as if he’d forgotten how to form words. But then he took a deep breath and said, “I just realized I wish he was dead. I saw him, dead, clear as day and - and I was happy about it. Thinkin’ about Chris dyin’ the way he almost made JD die, it - it - made me glad, now what kind of man thinks things like that?”

Josiah shook his head slowly, keeping his eye on Buck even as he heard the door of the church open. The others were coming to check on Buck. He couldn’t stop them.

“You’re angry, Buck,” Josiah said reassuringly, trying to be soothing because Buck had a childishly bewildered look on his face. “And you should be. But that anger won’t help JD now, you got to let it go.”

“It’s like...” Buck paused, blinked rapidly, ran one hand over his mouth. “It’s like where Chris used to be there’s just this big black hole, and there ain’t enough hate to fill it. He was my best friend, Josiah, and I want him dead.”

Josiah heard footsteps behind him, didn’t turn around. Didn’t say anything.

Buck glanced at the faces behind Josiah, cleared his throat and looked at the ground, hands once more on his hips. When he looked back up, his face no longer looked bewildered, or frightened. It looked set, and bitter. Very bitter.

“Well, Josiah, I reckon you got us here together to figure out what we all think about Chris,” he said in low, carefully controlled tones. “And now you know. And you’re right, it would tear a hole in JD’s heart if he thought we’d part company over this, when the only thing he’s got going for him right now is the thought that we’re gonna ride together again. So I suppose I can put on an act as well as the next man. But I ain’t never forgivin’. Never.”

Josiah groaned inside; this wasn’t what he wanted. “Buck - ”

The gunslinger shook his head. “Don’t, Josiah. You ain’t got the right.”

Josiah sighed, knew Buck was right. He slowly turned, saw the rest of his friends gathered in a small knot by the corner of the church, their faces a mixture of concern and deep, sweltering anger that Josiah knew could not be dissuaded, or convinced.

And Josiah hurt deeply that it was so.

Buck walked around Josiah, to where the others stood. He gave him a sad look, sad and infinitely tired. Josiah noticed that Buck had walked past Vin, was standing closest to Ezra, who was standing apart from Vin. Nathan was standing a few feet away from the former buffalo hunter, obviously concerned for his friend. But his face was a map of confusion, and it was clear his primary concern was Vin, not Chris. But Vin was standing apart from Nathan, seemingly oblivious to how chalky and unsteady he still looked. He stared at Josiah, and Josiah saw in those blue eyes what Vin knew: he and Josiah may forgive Chris, but they were alone in that. Alone and apart.

Divided.

“I’m sorry, Josiah,” Buck said softly, and there was real sorrow in his voice. “But what you want ain’t possible. We can make a show that Chris bein’ back don’t bother any of us, for JD. But it does, it bothers some of us a lot, and that’s just the way it is. And when he’s better again, we’ll ride, but it can’t be like it was before, and pretendin’ it can is a waste of time. I know, ‘cause I done too much of it already.”

A gentle night breeze blew. From below, in the church basement, Josiah heard one of the wounded groan in pain. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

When he looked back up, Buck had retreated a few paces, was looking at him resignedly. Then he turned, slowly, defeatedly, and walked quietly up the street, towards his room. Ezra scratched his lip, gave Josiah a look that was half-sorry, half I-told-you-so, and followed Buck. Nathan paused a moment, sighed and shook his head, and walked to Vin’s side, gave his arm a gently insistent tug.

“No,” Vin growled in a low voice, and shook Nathan off, as if to say, not yet. Josiah peered at him, a pale shadow in the paler moonlight. Vin regarded his friend with eyes that brimmed with sympathy, and loss.

Josiah stared back, felt the bond that had joined them all, gotten them through the week’s terrible crises disintegrating, dissolving in his hands. There was nothing he could do.

The demons were winning.

Vin paused, tilted his head and regarded Josiah for a moment.

“You tried, Josiah,” he said appreciatively, softly. Josiah felt a great weight in the pit of his stomach, fought it.

Vin smiled, a little, blinked against his fatigue. “Thank you.”

Josiah nodded, watched as Vin turned toward Nathan. The healer took his arm, and Josiah saw the tracker lean into him as the two slowly walked away. Fighting for Chris, but it might be a losing battle. Josiah suddenly felt like he was a hundred years old.

The church was echoing, eerie when he reentered it to extinguish the candles and go to bed. He sighed and blew out the lights one by one, picking the most burned-down candles out of their holders to throw away. Then he looked toward the altar and stopped.

Two votive holders sat on the altar, scraped blue glass. Josiah had transferred the two candles he’d lit for Chris and JD to them, years ago it seemed, when they had burned down too far and were only buttons of wax. There was barely enough strength to them to stay lit then...

And now, they’d gone out.

Josiah fought the horrid, ominous dread he felt as he walked around the church, blowing out the candles, but it came back, stronger.

The candles were out. They were doomed.

Chris was back, but as good as dead despite his sincerest attempts to reform. JD was back, would walk again, but his friends were divided, perhaps for good, and that would kill his spirit. Josiah extinguished another candle, then almost the last, thought of the Bible passage he’d read, the man tormented by demons, chained and driven out, no hope left. For how long? Two candles left. How long can the heart live with only the bitter herb of anger to sustain it? One...

Forever, perhaps. But it wasn’t life.

Josiah sighed and blew the last candle out. The church was dark now, and there was nothing to do but walk back to his narrow cot and try to sleep. A long day, and longer days to come.

Josiah locked the door, walked the hollow room toward the back, glanced at the two darkened votive holders on his way past and sighed again.

Then paused, stopped, peered closer.

In the darkness, barely there. Two tiny blue flames.

Almost drowned in the sea of wax surrounding them, almost out. But not quite. Still struggling, but in the gloom they shone like the brightest stars.

Hope.

Josiah stared at the sight a moment, tried to understand it. You old fool. You want to see meaning in everything. You saw those men’s faces, there’s no hope there. They’ll never forgive Chris, and you’ll never ride together again.

It seemed true, it was undeniable, but still Josiah saw the two candles burning in front of him, small and frail and about to go out perhaps, but not out yet. And he had to be in the darkness to see them.

A sign, Lord? Maybe, maybe not. But I need every shred of good news I can get, to keep my heart from sinking. So I’ll be an old fool, and hope.

For Chris. And for JD.

Josiah took a step away from the altar, then paused, and stepped back, placed five of the burned-down stubs on the altar. Then, taking a taper from the altar,he carefully tipped JD’s candle and lit the taper from it. Some of the drowning wax dripped out, and when he set the candle down again, JD’s flame was burning brighter. Josiah smiled, picked up Chris’ candle and drained the wax, then touched the flaming tip of the taper to the other five waxy stubs.

Seven small stars, shining on the altar, combining their light. None of them perfect, but still strong and true. It was almost too bright to look at.

Josiah gazed at the tiny dots of light, and smiled a little. _For all of us._

And went to bed.


	18. Chapter 18

The next day was all bustle and preparation, made only a little more difficult by the fact that Darcy had mysteriously vanished.

Well, not vanished exactly. Everyone knew that he’d gone out of town, that he’d left early that morning after going over some things with Nathan and making a round of the makeshift hospital that had been set up in the church’s basement. Someone rather nervously asked him if he was coming back, to which Darcy jokingly replied that there would be at least six guns coming after him if he didn’t; therefore, yes, he was coming back, by the next afternoon. And then he’d left.

The town continued to sweep up, build and recover. Emmie was busily trying to decide what color to paint her new window, whether to maybe just paint the whole front of the store, and was very happy to receive a bundle of cleaned goods from Gloria, who’d carefully washed and ironed all of the young woman’s ribbons that had fallen and been trampled in the looting. Most of them were fit to sell, and Emmie was so happy she decided to paint the whole front - pink.

True to their word, when the others met with Josiah in JD’s room that morning they were acting as if the tense meeting in the church had never happened. Buck in particular seemed to act as if Chris did not exist, and laughed and joshed as he watched JD devour a large breakfast. JD seemed happy to be back in familiar surroundings, but not at all happy at the list of exercises that Nathan held up over his potatoes and eggs.

“I thought I just had to learn to walk.” JD moaned as he looked in dismay at the instructions. Nathan smiled at his petulance, and glanced at Buck, who smiled also as he lounged against JD’s bureau.

“You will, eventually,” Nathan nodded, taking the list back and scanning it with his dark eyes. “But you got at least three weeks before that collarbone is healed up enough for you to put weight on it, and Mr. Thomas says you got to keep up the strength in your legs or they’ll atrophy on you.”

“Atro-what?” JD asked in confusion.

“He means they’ll shrivel up and fall off.” Buck joked as he shifted his weight.

JD’s eyes bugged. “Oh my God! They will?”

“No.” Nathan gave Buck a dirty look. “No, son, but they’ll get weak if you don’t use ‘em. We’ll get started as soon as you’re done with breakfast.”

“Okay,” JD said glumly, pushing the eggs around on his plate.

“And you ain’t takin’ all day about finishin’, either.”

JD sighed hugely, and picked up another forkful of potatoes. He chewed them thoughtfully, then grumbled, “I don’t get what my collarbone has to do with walking, anyway. Why can’t I just start now?”

“Because,” Nathan said patiently, smiling at his young friend’s petulance. “You ain’t gonna start off walkin’. You gotta get your walkin’ back by learnin’ to do it the way a baby does. That means first you gotta get on your stomach an’ crawl for a while, an’ to do that you’re gonna be usin’ that collarbone to pull yourself along. We do that too quick, before it’s healed, an’ it’s just gonna sn- ”

JD winced, indicating he got the message. But still he shook his head in disbelief. “On my stomach, crawling. That’s really going to do it?”

“According to Mr. Thomas it is,” Nathan replied.

JD sat still for a moment, looked at Nathan, then at Buck and Josiah, and all of the men saw the uncertainty there, the incredulity battling with desperate hope. “And I’m gonna get better.”

Buck nodded, coming to stand behind Nathan with a wide smile. “That’s what we’re workin’ on.”

JD blinked, regarded the others in youthful wonder, his eyes shining beneath that angry bruise, those fading marks.

“I don’t believe it,” he finally said in a low, awestruck voice, shaking his head. “It’s - it’s almost too much.”

“We know, son,” Josiah said softly. “But it’s true, and it’s gonna happen.”

“But not if you take all day with them damn eggs,” Nathan said sternly.

The others laughed. JD gamely picked up another mouthful of food, looked at the instructions again, and sighed. This was going to be a long haul.

  
  


That same morning, Mary came out of her office proudly bearing the latest edition of her newspaper. TOWN SURVIVES ASSAULT, the headline read, SHERIFF ON ROAD TO RECOVERY. She felt the sunlight on her face, ran her hand over the black ink on the white paper, and decided she never felt so happy to be handing out a paper in her whole life.

She had just stepped into the street to begin handing the newspapers out when she heard a voice call her name, and turned to see Mr. Conklin.

“Good morning, Mrs. Travis,” the old man said, with a smile slightly more sheepish than his usual sneering one. “Is that the paper?”

“Yes, Mr. Conklin,” Mary replied, handing him one automatically. “You’ll enjoy this edition. It’s good news, for a change.”

“Well, that’s, ah..that’s good, I guess,” Conklin stammered, reading the front in a perfunctory manner. Then, suddenly, he folded it up and nervously adjusted his glasses.

Mary noticed this, frowned. “Is something wrong, Mr. Conklin?”

“No, well, I mean, there is, but - ” Conklin stared at the ground a moment, then looked at Mary and said, “I just wanted to let you know, Mrs. Travis, that I’m...sorry...about some of the things I’ve said to you this past week.” Conklin sounded as if someone was strangling him, but Mary respected his desire to speak enough to let him continue. “In retrospect, I’m willing to admit I might have been...wrong.”

Mary smiled. An apology from Conklin was the last thing she expected to get. “Well, thank you for telling me, Mr. Conklin. I accept your apology.”

Conklin nodded wordlessly, looked deflated and small in the morning light. Mary almost felt sorry for him, then reminded herself that like as not he’d be back at her heels in a week, nipping at them with some petty complaint, something about the world he didn’t like. But this was nice. For now, this was enough.

“Oh - ” Conklin said as he folded the paper up and put it under his arm. “Gerald’s funeral is this afternoon, in case you want to come. Probably won’t be big, he didn’t have a family. Just thought I’d let you know.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Conklin,” Mary said, and felt a little surge of sadness. “I’ll try to attend.”

Conklin nodded acknowledgement, and walked on down the street.

Mary watched him go, thought about how insane things had been the past week, and now it seemed that there were small miracles happening all around her. JD would walk again. The town was safe. And Conklin had actually said he was sorry.

Miracles. And maybe they weren’t done yet.

With a hopeful glance toward the morning sun, Mary hoisted the newspapers on her arm, and went on down the street.

  
  


The day wore on, turned into afternoon, then night. Nathan got JD started on his exercises, much to the boy’s dismay, and while they worked together the others went about the town, helping with repairs and patrolling the area. Orin oversaw the burial of the outlaws and the transport of the slain soldiers, and in the middle of the afternoon everything stopped while Gerald Townsend was laid to rest. It was a grim reminder, nothing comes easy.

Nothing further was said about the meeting at the church, and Josiah could tell when he was around the others, helping with repairs or visiting JD, that they were trying to present a united front, and it seemed to be working, so far. A poker game was held that night in the saloon, to celebrate the town’s victory over Concho and JD’s imminent recovery. Everyone showed up, and the cards flew through Ezra’s fingers as he smiled at the faces gathered around him. It was almost like old times, and Josiah knew they were really trying, for JD. Only time would tell if they would succeed.

The following morning Darcy came back, and not alone. A small girl was riding on his saddle in front of him, a girl of about fourteen with dark eyes and long black hair. The townspeople gaped at her, and rumors flew. She was his daughter, she was some kind of concubine, and a dozen other, more far-fetched tales. Only Chris, who glanced up and saw the Irishman ride by with the girl on his horse, knew the truth, and it stunned him. Stunned him and shamed him, because he’d totally forgotten about the little girl who’d put her too-practiced hand on his arm at the grubby wayside stop that awful first day and said in quiet tones full of submissive resignation, sir, would you like to go to bed with me?

He’d forgotten, in the middle of everything that had happened since. But Darcy had remembered, and gone and rescued her. Chris shook his head, wondered at Darcy’s generosity, and his own pigheaded selfishness.

Darcy trotted the girl over to Josiah’s, introduced her to him and turned her over to his care. Then it was another round at the hospital, over to JD’s, and then it was night again.

The rest of the week saw the emergence of a kind of routine in the mens’ lives: Darcy and Nathan spent their days taking care of the wounded, and JD; the other men helped repair the town; Josiah and Darcy sometimes went to see Chris, ignoring the dark looks of the others as they did so; Vin continued to rest up, and insist he was fine, although at Nathan’s insistence he’d drank enough fluids and eaten enough red meat to make him never want to see either again; and then at night the men would gather in the saloon and play cards. And then get up the next day, and do it all over again.

By the end of the week the saloon seemed livelier than it had been in a long time. It was as if the town was loosening up again, feeling like its old self. Ezra was dealing poker to some of the bored soldiers, Josiah and Nathan were sharing whiskey and cigars with Darcy in a quiet corner, and Buck was busily sweet-talking one of the working girls and sharing laughs with the bartender as he lounged against the polished wooden counter, at ease with himself and the world.

The only person not at the saloon was Vin. The former buffalo hunter was feeling better, and had subsequently dissappeared. Josiah had hoped his young friend would go to see Chris, but several checks throughout the night showed no familiar-looking chestnut horse tethered outside the jail, and when Josiah checked once more before calling it a night himself he saw the jail dark, Orin gone home, but no sign of Vin.

He’s not ready yet, Josiah realized, but tried to hide his disappointment as he bid his friends good night. Hopefully the time would come, and anyway he was happy that Vin was out of jail himself, and recovered from his wounds. As he made his way back to the church that night, Josiah mused that he should not have been surprised that his friend had vanished. Vin was a free man now, and no one expected him to stay in town for long.

  
  


The outskirts of Four Corners was quiet as Vin slowly guided his horse back on the road into town some hours later. For the first time in a week, there wasn’t any trouble. Concho Charles was taken care of, the town was safe, and his shoulder and head no longer bothered him, except for occasionally. There was nothing to worry about. For the first time in a week, Vin Tanner could relax.

Vin let his horse walk at a leisurely pace as he unhooked his canteen and took a drink. He tilted his head back, gazed up at the stars as the cool liquid coursed down his throat. It was a clear night, and the stars were blazing like pinpoint diamonds, high above him. Vin recorked his canteen, but didn’t take his eyes off the heavens above him until he was back in town, and the street fires made them difficult to see. It didn’t matter. Vin knew they were there.

A lot to think about. A lot to take in, these last few days. Hell, the whole week. Their world was taken apart, then put back together again, but different. Made a man’s head spin, the way things had gone. Need to get out, get to some fresh air and mountains, where things don’t change, where a man don’t have to reason on things to understand them. Breathe that clean, honest air and just don’t think for a while. Feels good, don’t it?

But, got to get back. Gettin’ late, and the way things have been wouldn’t be surprised if they needed me. Go on over to the saloon, see if anyone’s still there. Ask on JD, see if he’s still riled about doin’ those exercises. He probably is.

The street was deserted as Vin rode on, his body slung casually in the saddle, his reins loose and low. Some of the street fires were out, and most of the houses along the dirt path were dark, their inhabitants long since gone to bed. There was a deep silence in the street, it absorbed sound like a thick blanket, and Vin wondered at the peacefulness as his eyes scanned the still-scarred evidences of the week’s troubles. So much blood and noise then, the nick in his scalp still troubled him some, but now it seemed, in the darkness and the quiet, as if the town was holding its breath, waiting for something. Something to end, or begin, or continue. It seemed to call to Vin, as the mountains had, and almost unwillingly the young man let his eyes travel to the dark red brick of the jailhouse, and thought.

He’d been thinking on it since the day before, when they’d all stood in the jail together and he saw Chris for the first time in nearly a week. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but whatever it was, it wasn’t what he got. He figured Chris would be sorry, thought he probably would have a tough time facing them, but was unprepared for the almost submissive man who stood in front of Judge Travis and said in his Northern tones that he had beaten JD Dunne. And then walked over and locked himself up for it.

The jail was close now, and Vin slowly reined his horse to a stop, looked thoughtfully at the darkened windowpanes. The judge had locked the place up and gone home a few hours ago, but Vin knew without having to look that Chris was likely still awake in that tormented darkness. It was too early for the Chris he knew to sleep.

A guard sat dozing in the chair outside the door, and Vin was careful not to make any noise to wake him up. He simply sat in his saddle, the smoke from dying fires rising around him like filmy veils, and thought.

It was Chris’ eyes. Vin hoped Chris hadn’t seen how shocked he was when he looked into those eyes. They had an empty look about them, but not in a bad way; they weren’t numb, or dazed, or beaten down. They looked...it reminded Vin of the Indians he’d known, how they looked sometimes after a strenuous hunt, or a wild dance. The eyes, like empty jars waiting to be filled with something better than what was cleansed out, a willing draining of the soul.

Exorcism, Vin thought suddenly, remembering his conversation with Josiah at the rock the night before. An exorcism.

Vin sat in his saddle a moment, regarded the locked and darkened jail as the mists of the street swirled about him. Then he quietly dismounted and tethered the animal, so silently the guard never stirred. Vin smiled to himself. He knew what he was doing.

The alley next to the jail was dark and narrow. Vin felt his way along the wall, thought sadly that if the sun were shining, he would see where JD’s blood was caked into the rough brick, where it had seeped and stained into the mortar, the soft sand beneath. Smoke from the street drifted by, suffusing the air with a ghostly otherworldliness, and Vin felt oddly choked by it, could almost see Chris, staggering, drunk, and JD, his white shirt stained with blood, frantically trying to protect himself as Chris slammed him into the unyielding, jagged brick, once, then again, until the boy slumped to the ground and didn’t move anymore...

Vin put his back to the wall for a moment, and ran his hands over his face, glad the darkness was hiding him. So much, it was so much to forgive. The man that hurt JD was no friend of his, no friend of anyone’s, just a snarling, vicious beast, and the fact that JD would probably recover did nothing to ease the sickness in Vin’s heart as he sat against the bloodstained wall, his hat off and dangling in his hands. The man that hurt JD deserved to die.

But maybe he had died. Vin studied the wall opposite him, its craggy surface only just visible in the dim moonlight, and remembered what he had said to Josiah. If Chris comes back, he’s admitting he’s going to have to live with this for the rest of his life. And now Chris was back, the empty vessel, no arrogant swagger, no denials or accusations, but words, I attacked JD. I’m responsible. And locked himself in jail, sleeping against the wall that was stained with JD’s blood,and he would be in that cell for a long time probably. No longer a snarling beast, but not anyone Vin was sure he knew either. But he wanted to.

Vin tilted his head up, saw the stars shining above the narrow alleyway. Gazing at their crystalline brilliance, he put up one hand and fished around in his jacket pocket for a moment, found what he was looking for. And smiled.

He played softly, so as not to wake the guard outside the front door. He wasn’t playing for an audience at all really, just felt somber and melancholy in that haunted alley where their miseries had all started, his and his friends’. So Vin played his harmonica for them, a nameless tune, sad and soft and low, and on the other side of the brick wall Chris Larabee sat up in the blue-black darkness, and listened, and also thanked God for the darkness. And wept.

  
  


The days passed swiftly, turned into weeks. Darcy declared his intention to stay in Four Corners for as long as it took to get JD well again, and took a room in the boarding house. This made the curious townspeople insane with speculation - who was this man? Why was he going so far out of his way to help somebody he didn’t even know? And what was his connection with Chris? The answers were too common, too unexciting for the nosy folk, so before long a host of wild stories sprang up, including that Darcy was JD’s uncle, and or maybe father. This Darcy laughed off with the comment that the only Dunnes he knew lived in Cork and were much too good for him, and that JD couldn’t possibly be his son because he’d heard it from Buck Wilmington himself that the boy’s singing voice was terrible.

JD continued to grumble and do his exercises, waiting for his collarbone to heal. A few days after Darcy’s return, Nathan took the stitches from JD’s scalp, declaring that the would could heal the rest of the way on its own. As much as JD squirmed and complained during the procedure, it was a significant occasion for the five men gathered around him - the first visible, undeniable sign that JD would get better, recover, and come back to himself again. JD didn’t see the relief on their faces, only groused that his head hurt, but when Nathan grinned and turned to Buck, he saw a mist in the gunslinger’s eyes, knew that he was looking at a youth who a short time before was broken, bruised, and unconscious. And now - the bruises were fading, the broken collarbone healing nicely, and the once-horrible stitches reduced to a neat red line just behind JD’s hairline over his left eye. JD was pouting, but the others in the room knew the truth. It was very nearly a miracle.

The town continued to rebuild itself. The scars of Concho Charles’ visit began to fade, and Mary noticed the townspeople treating her, and the hired guns, with a new kind of grudging respect. Even Mr. Conklin, their most ardent critic, kept his silence, which to Mary was an astonishment. And a blessed relief.

Chris continued to sit in the jail. The townspeople seemed to be even more confused about him than they were about Darcy, and the onetime leader of the Seven was the subject over many laundry lines and mugs of beer. Was he a hero or a monster? Did he think that saving the town from Concho Charles would erase what he did to that poor boy? He almost ran, you know. That Darcy just brought him in to collect the bounty. They’re running a scam together, Chris Larabee would never sit in jail, he’s too wild for that, he’ll break out, you’ll see. You’ll see...

But Chris stayed in the jail, not once complaining or even speaking to anyone outside of Orin, Josiah, and Vin. Josiah was glad to see Vin talking to Chris again. It seemed to ease the gunslinger’s loneliness tremendously, to have that calm, understanding presence to talk to, and Vin’s straightforward, clear-eyed acceptance of Chris’ guilt and sorrow appeared to strengthen Chris’ resolve. The others knew about Vin’s forgiveness of Chris, but it wasn’t talked about, and in JD’s room it seemed as if nothing had changed. But Josiah noticed Buck and Ezra keeping company with Nathan more, and Vin less. And worried about it.

Mary wanted to talk to Chris too, just for a few minutes, but Orin gently discouraged it, took her aside one evening and told her, the man’s been through something that he’s still dealing with. You just want to make sure he’s all right, but he thinks he let you down, and you go to him too fast and you’ll just tear his wounds open again. Give it time, Mary. He knows how you feel.

Three weeks after the battle, the last of the wounded walked out of the church, and the crisis was declared officially over. Satisfied that town would do all right without him, Orin gathered the remaining soldiers together and pulled out of town, leaving Vin and Josiah primarily responsible for watching the jail, and Mr. Dwight in charge of helping them if they needed it. He stopped by JD’s room, where the men were lounging, and said his goodbyes, wishing JD a swift recovery. It was later agreed to by all that the boy was sure to get better now, just to impress the judge. Mary shed a few tears, and bid her father-in-law goodbye.

The townspeople began to notice that although Josiah and Vin talked to Chris, the others continued to keep their distance from their former friend. Nathan continued to look after JD, Buck busied himself helping out the townsfolk and JD, and Ezra had his poker games to keep himself occupied, and a cold eye for any conversation that hinted at Chris Larabee’s name. It was generally agreed among the townsfolk that, if and when Chris was ever let out, either he or Buck and Ezra would immediately leave town, rather than share breathing space with him. If they didn’t just outright lynch him first.

  
  


One afternoon, Mary was on her way over to pay the JD a visit when the stagecoach arrived, and a passenger disembarked that made Mary stop, and gasp in surprise. Finally she found her voice and stammered, “Mr. Worthington!”

The jeweler turned at her voice, smiled and tipped his hat as she approached. “hello, Mrs. Travis.” He said politely, but his huge grin revealed how glad he was to have taken her by surprise.

“Well - how nice to see you again,” Mary said, remembering their last conversation, when he was hurrying out of town before the approaching outlaws. “Are you here for a visit?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Travis,” he said, waving at the luggage the driver was tossing onto the street. “I’m back to stay. Got the good news from a neighbor of mine, said the town was doing all right again.” He looked around, nodded in satisfaction. “Looks like he was telling me the truth.”

Mary glanced around herself, at the new glass windows, the repaired buildings, and smiled. “Yes, Orin came with some soldiers, and the hired guns were quite a help. I don’t think the town will be quite so quick to judge them again.”

“Well, that’s great,” Mr. Worthington said, leaning forward a bit. “Say, I heard that the sheriff is going to be all right too, or is that just a rumor? “

“No, it’s true,” Mary said happily. “A doctor came, from Europe, who’s going to help him walk again. In fact, I’m going to see him right now.”

“That’s splendid!” Mr. Worthington exulted, and seemed to mean it. “I heard about everything that happened, and me and Jennie just knew we had to come back. Any place that can get through everything that this town’s been through has just got to be a survivor, don’t you think?”

Mary nodded, felt her heart swell with pride. Survivors, that was a good word. The right word.

“Well, I have to run,” Mr. Worthington said, reaching over to pick up his suitcase. “I told Jennie I’d wire her when I got in. I’ll be by later, Mrs. Travis, I want to place some advertisements and talk about maybe doing an article about the store reopening. I’ve got a feeling things are really going to pick up.”

Mary smiled. Mr. Worthington’s confidence lifting up her own, making it soar. She waved him off and went to see JD, her heart as light as a child’s.

  
  


Finally JD’s collarbone finished mending, and Nathan removed the constricting bandage from the boy’s arm. JD was exuberant at finally having two hands again, but his happiness was dampened when he discovered that his left arm was weak and stiff from being held in one place for so long.

“Don’t worry about that,” Nathan said with a reassuring smile as he balled up the last of the bandages to throw away. “You just got to get the strength back, that’s all.”

JD groaned, and threw the healer a weary look. “I gotta do more exercises?”

“Only if you want to ride a horse again,” Nathan said slyly, and stood up to discard the bandages.

JD rolled his eyes in exasperation, but was happy enough about finally being free to invite everyone over to his room for poker that night. Everyone came.

By this time the town had renewed itself, fixed every shattered window and mended every broken door, and for the casual traveler it would have been impossible to tell that anything out of the ordinary had happened in Four Corners in the last month. Even looking at JD provided no clue, unless you looked very close. The bruises were gone, the broken collarbone reduced to mere soreness, and if he was sitting down there was no reason to think he wasn’t completely well. Except for a certain weariness around the eyes that hadn’t been there before, a few creases in the once-smooth face. And a small, almost unnoticeable scar above his left eye, right against his hairline. That was all.

While JD healed, Darcy set up a practice of sorts out of his rented room. When not at the hospital tending to the few remaining wounded, or helping JD with his exercises, the physician could often be found there or around the town, helping Nathan tend to the injured and sick, and sometimes taking on problems of his own. There were a few grumblings about the Irishman showing off and trying to push Nathan out of town, but they didn’t come from any of the people Darcy helped, or from Nathan himself, who was pleased to have someone to lend him a hand. For his part, Darcy admired Nathan’s easy manner and the trust he inspired in people, and only saw people himself if Nathan was busy, or deferred to his knowledge. They got along splendidly, and the objections dwindled, then ceased.

A week and a half after JD’s bandaging came off, Darcy performed a final check of his collarbone, then made the happy announcement that it was high time to get the lad back on his feet. He had rented an unfurnished room down the hall from JD’s, and in the time that the boy had spent getting strength back in his arm, the others helped Darcy turn the bare room into the place where JD would learn to walk again.

With Buck’s help, Josiah brought over two pews from the church, which Darcy instructed them to place so their high backs faced each other, with a long passage down the middle. JD would use them, he explained, to help him balance when he was walking. Ezra and Buck went around asking the townswomen for spare blankets and quilts, to cushion the hard floor against the falls JD would inevitably take. When they found out what the donation was for, the women gladly complied. And they all joined in the construction of a short flight of stairs, four steps high, for the day when JD would need to learn once again how to navigate staircases and the now-treacherous flights of steps outside his own room. The work was completed the same day JD was pronounced fit to begin his therapy, and Darcy warned the excited JD to try to get as much sleep as he could. The following days would be the most challenging yet.

But sleep would be impossible that night, for the youth who wanted to walk, and run, and ride. Buck saw JD’s skittishness, suggested another all-night poker game to get rid of some of that energy. Darcy was unsure, but Ezra took him aside and invited him to sit in too, and shuffled his cards with a wicked smile on his face.

Josiah heard of the invitation, wondered if his friends, who were still so at odds over Chris, could truly let loose and enjoy each other’s company without tempers flaring, and possibly bottles flying, and all in front of JD. But as the sun was setting that day, he walked down the streets and heard everyone talking about JD’s recovery, about how wonderful it was. He shared supper with Mary, and Buck and Vin, and saw it in their faces: JD was getting better, would be fine. Buck was too happy to resent Vin’s renewed friendship with Chris, and Vin was too happy to care that Buck still harbored bad feelings. For one night, differences would be set aside. It was time to celebrate.

The poker game that followed would be remembered as one of the rowdiest, loudest, and most exuberant card matches the men had ever set down to. With a whispered warning to Darcy to ‘watch your rings and lay low’, Ezra let the cards fly with such speed that it was nearly impossible to keep up. Between the energetic card-playing and Buck’s endless stream of non-sequitur ramblings and dirty jokes, JD was getting visibly foggy by eleven o’clock, and by midnight had played his last wretched hand and, yawning, curled up without even saying good night.

Without making a sound, the entire group picked itself up and moved to Buck’s room, where the festivities continued until well past two. At least, Darcy thought that must be the time; he’d lost his pocket watch to Buck a half-hour earlier, and couldn’t be sure.

  
  


When at last most everyone had lost their money and developed splitting headaches, the poker game broke up, and Buck at last made his way to his bed, exhausted but determined to hang onto his good mood. He had just brought his suspenders down when he heard a soft knock on the door, and went to see who it was. Thinking quickly, he pulled his gun out of its holster and held it at the ready, just in case.

He sidled up to the door, opened it a crack. A little wider.

Then wider, in surprise. It was Rita.

“Hello, Buck,” she said, and smiled at him.

“Well - hello there, darlin’,” Buck said softly, dropping his gun arm and opening the door wider. “How you doin’? Is Maria okay?”

“I’m fine,” Rita purred, coming into the room and turning to face Buck, her long dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. “We’re both very fine.”

“I’ve been trying to find you, you know,” Buck said as he set the gun down and pulled his suspender straps back up, “But you two were gone like a Texas whirlwind. I - ”

“I know,” Rita interrupted, stepping close to Buck and putting a finger on his lips, “We decided to lay low for a while. You were - how you say - “

“Busy?” Buck said around Rita’s finger.

Rita smiled up at Buck and nodded, slid her arms around his neck. “I hear Senor Dunne is okay?”

“He’s going to be,” Buck said softly, shivering at the feel of Rita’s arms around him. It felt like it had been ages, but strangely Buck realized that he had not thought of lovemaking once in the past month. Not once. That had to be some kind of record.

“Yes, ma’am, he’s going to be just fine.” Buck smiled and embraced Rita, brought her lips to his and kissed her. It felt so good, to want a woman again, to be free of worry and anger, just for a night. He didn’t even know how tight he’d been wound, till that moment. And then he felt like he could fly forever.

“This is happy, que?” Rita replied softly, holding Buck tighter and stroking his hair. “We going to have a fiesta?”

“Oh, darlin’,” Buck said, and laughed heartily as they tumbled toward the bed. “You better believe it.”

  
  


The following morning when Darcy met Buck outside his room, his only comment to the gunslinger’s stiff walk and somewhat bruised neck was a raised eyebrow. Buck gave him a huge grin and genteelly handed the physician his watch.

“You can have it back,” he said in a sore gasp as they made their way down the hall, “Didn’t get all the way undressed last night. I don’t think it works no more.”

“Uh - huh,” Darcy said knowingly. And pocketed the watch.

Despite the lateness of his retirement, JD was up when the two men knocked on his door, and eager to go to what he would dub ‘the room’, where Darcy had a good breakfast and a full day of therapy waiting for him.

“How is this stuff gonna help me walk again?” JD asked Darcy, looking dubiously at the pews as he sat on the floor in the large, bare room and ate his eggs and juice. Buck was looking out the curtained alcove windows in the front, drinking some coffee.

Darcy took a sip of coffee and said, “Well, we’ll have to start at the beginnin’, on the mats. Ye’ll learn to walk as a babe does, by creepin’ first, then crawlin’. After that, we’ll get ye standin’ on yer own, and then ye’ll walk. It’ll be slow, and ye’ll need every ounce of patience ye have. But it can be done.”

JD eyed the arranged pews, the spread-out quilts and the makeshift stairs, and nodded with a determined gleam in his eyes. “I’m ready.”

Darcy took another sip, and smiled. “Then, Mr. Dunne, so am I.”

And they got to work.

Buck would later tell his friends that he’d never seen JD sweat as much as he did the first day Darcy worked him out. The physician set JD on the floor, flat on his stomach, and slowly, carefully, patiently, instructed the youth on how to move his arms and legs so he would creep forward, the first stage toward walking. JD looked petrified, but when Darcy told him to try he pursed his lips and, with a glare of determination in his hazel eyes, JD Dunne pushed, and pulled, and concentrated, concentrated, concentrated -

-and finally moved forward, an inch at a time.

It didn’t seem like it would be so hard, but from the look of intense concentration on JD’s face, from the flush of his cheeks and the glistening sweat on his brow as he struggled to coordinate his legs and arms so they would propel him forward on the smooth floor, it was very hard indeed. The whole day was spent that way, Darcy urging JD on, JD on his stomach pushing forward, so slowly, his face stern and focused, his black hair hanging unheeded in his blank eyes, his whole body shaking with the effort. Buck hovered nearby, gave JD what encouragement he could, and handed the kid a towel and a glass of water when Darcy called a halt to his struggles. JD would rest for a little while, and then they would begin again. And then again, and again, each time the same movements, the same repetition, so it would become ingrained in JD’s mind, as it had been before; not a thought of movement, but unconscious, unwilled memory. Struggle, rest, and then struggle. Again and again.

Finally, Darcy glanced up after stopping JD yet again, and noticed the sun was slanting its way down the pale walls, and turning amber. “Well, that’s it for today I think,” he said, sounding as tired as JD, Buck thought as he poured the youth another glass of water, and handed him a towel to wipe the sweat from his skin. Darcy regarded JD with a touch of admiration in his eyes and added, “Ye’ve worked hard enough.”

JD took the water, mopped off his face and shook his head as he sat up, gasping. “I wanna go again.”

“Now, Mr. Dunne,” Darcy said, accepting the drink Buck was handing him, “ye must take it slow, or ye’ll be gettin’ sick.”

“No, I’m fine,” JD insisted, even though his breath was coming in shallow heaves, and he was dripping with sweat. “I can do it again.”

“Now don’t you go arguin’ with the doctor,” Buck advised, taking the towel from JD and roughly drying the perspiration from the boy’s hair. “He’s as bad as Nathan, you ain’t gonna win.”

“I actually think Mr. Jackson is somewhat worse,” Darcy offered plaintively, watching Buck with his arms crossed.

“I don’t,” JD mumbled, scrunching his eyes shut as Buck tousled his hair in the towel’s folds.

There was a knock at the door, and a moment later it opened and Josiah stood there, his hands together and folded.

“Afternoon, gents,” the big man said amiably, walking in and giving the weary JD an encouraging smile.

“Hi, Josiah,” JD said, and tried to stretch the soreness out of his arms.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Josiah continued, walking up to Darcy and looking at him expectantly, “but I got some folk in the saloon and the newspaper office who’re mighty anxious to hear how the first day went.”

“Splendid,” Darcy enthused.

“Just fine,” Buck added.

“I am so damn sore,” JD groaned.

“Yeah,” Josiah rumbled as he approached JD and helped him to his feet, keeping a tight grip on him so he didn’t fall. “We figured on that. Now don’t go tellin’ the woman that runs the place, but me and Ezra smuggled one of the washtubs out of the bathhouse and into your room, JD, and Nathan found some nice hot water to go in it.”

JD was wincing as Josiah hooked the boy’s right arm around his neck, but now he was staring at the former preacher in amazement. “You got a bathtub in my room?”

“Yep,” Josiah said softly. “Now all we gotta do is get you in it, and you’ll be feelin’ better in no time.”

“Sounds great - ow,” JD commented as Josiah slowly helped him out of the room. He was carrying him, really, but it was done in such a surreptitious way it wasn’t obvious. And for that, Buck knew as he watched them go, JD was grateful.

Buck turned away from the doorway after the two left and gave Darcy a tired smile, picking up the pitcher and the discarded towels as the two prepared to leave.

“Well, a successful day I think,” Darcy sighed, rolling his sleeves back down. “The first of many. Yer Mr. Dunne has a remarkable spirit.”

Buck nodded, filial pride bright in his eyes. “He sure does. You comin’?”

Darcy shook his head, reached for his jacket, which lay discarded on the floor. “I have to pay some visits, but Mr. Jackson can look after Mr. Dunne’s needs. I’ll look in on him tonight, after I’ve finished.”

A darkness flickered across Buck’s face for a moment, and he looked down at the pitcher in his hands. “You goin’ to the jail?”

Darcy shrugged the jacket on, eyed Buck a little warily. “Aye, among other places.”

Buck nodded, looked down quickly, kept his eyes on the floor.

“I’m sorry.” Darcy said, “I know yer feelings, but Chris begged me to let him know how Mr. Dunne is faring. I promised him that he would know.”

Buck shrugged, looked up but not at Darcy, past him, at the reds and golds of the setting sun. “You’re helpin’ JD get better, Mr. Thomas, and I’m grateful. Don’t suppose I got too much to say about what you do in your spare time.”

Darcy paused, tilted his head. “There’s room for more, if ye’re interested.”

Buck winced, shook his head. “Like I said, you’re a good man, but you don’t understand what’s goin’ on between Chris and me. I ain’t like Vin, or Josiah, I can’t just let it go.”

Darcy finished pulling on his jacket, looking at Buck in a way that made the gunslinger uneasy, as if he was looking at Buck but seeing someone else.

“Of course,” Darcy said apologetically. “I’m very sorry, forget I brought it up.”

Buck tried to shrug it off, backed toward the door. “Ain’t nothin’ to say sorry for, just the way it is. Just got to move on.”

Darcy nodded, didn’t say anything.

Buck cleared his throat, tried to change the subject. “So - Mr. Thomas, JD’s gettin’ better?”

Darcy smiled. “Yes, Mr. Wilmington, thanks to yer kind encouragement and his spirit.”

“And - he’ll be ridin’ soon?”

Darcy looked at Buck curiously.

The gunslinger shrugged, smiled apologetically. “Don’t mean to push, it’s just - it’s kinda all the boy wants, you know.”

“Yes, I do know,” Darcy said wistfully as he looked down to pull out his cuffs. “He told me. He wants ye all t’ ride together, the way ye used to. His heart is set on it, it seems - ”

Darcy was unprepared for the look on Buck’s face when he looked up again. For a moment, a shadow crossed it, full of anguish and a kind of helpless resentment. When Buck met Darcy’s eyes again, his expression changed to one of simple resignation.

“Well, I reckon I’d better go help Nathan,” the gunslinger said in a husky voice, and tried to smile disarmingly. “That boy’s gotten so thin he’s liable to squirt right out of the tub and fall through a hole in the floor. ‘Scuse me.”

With that, Buck backed quickly out the door and was out of sight before Darcy could open his mouth to protest. He looked at the empty air where the young man had been sadly, and with eyes that brimmed with the memory of another long-ago friendship, he looked down once more and finished buttoning up his coat.

  
  


Mary closed the door to the Clarion office, turned the lock as she prepared to go to supper. The sunset was beautiful. It washed the streets with a saffron glow, and she closed her eyes for a moment and breathed in its warmth.

“Evening, Mrs. Travis.”

She opened her eyes, saw Darcy Thomas standing in the street, a small smile on his face. She returned it and stepped into the dusty road. “Good evening, Mr. Thomas. How did it go?”

“Oh, wonderfully,” Darcy replied as they walked together. “He’s a strong lad, and very determined.”

“Good.” Mary smiled again, grateful as she would always be for this mysterious man, who was saving JD’s life.

“I’m off to have a word with Mr. Larabee,” Darcy said conversationally, indicating the jail. “Would ye care to join me?”

Mary’s eyebrows went up, and she stopped in her tracks. She’d thought about talking to Chris, of course, dreamed about it even, but...what would she say? No, she wasn’t ready, not yet. Maybe another day, or week...

“I - I’m not sure,” she stammered, looking around, suddenly aware of the other people on the street.

“Mrs. Travis,” Darcy said softly, facing her in the setting sun. “I’ll not press ye, but the fact of the matter is, Mr. Larabee needs every friendly face he can find right now. His men, some of them, may never forgive him at all, and he needs some assurance that all is not lost for him here. He cares for ye, he told me so himself.”

Mary blinked, felt her heart bang against something hard, and fall over.

Darcy backed away, looking toward the jail. “Well, when ye’re ready, please go talk to him as soon as ye can. It would give him something pleasant to reflect upon, until this is over. Now if you’ll excuse me, ma’am.”

Mary watched him turn and walk toward the jail. Her heart came to itself, tried to clamber over the high walls of her fear, her uncertainty. Chris cares for you. And he needs a friend...

Such a high wall. But gaining footholds, picking up strength.

And you know what you saw when you looked into those eyes.

Almost over...

He needs your forgiveness. He cares for you. The eyes, above the bed in Wickestown, those eyes, that concern, is everything all right?

He cares...

Over.

Mary raised her skirts, and cleared her throat. “Mr. Thomas? Could you wait please?”

  
  


The inside of the jail was dim in the twilight, Vin a hazily sunlit shadow as Mary entered the office and saw him sitting in the sheriff’s chair, his feet propped up, quietly whittling. He drew his legs off the desk at the sight of Mary, touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.”

Darcy took off his hat, looked toward the cell and saw Chris standing, coming quickly to the bars.

Before Darcy could even open his mouth, Chris asked, “How’s JD?”

“He’s fine, Chris,” Darcy said as he approached the bars, hoping to alleviate some of the anxiety in Chris’ eyes as the other man gripped the iron rods in his hands. “He made his first movements today. He’s worn out and sore, but he’ll be fine.”

Chris nodded a little, a bit of worry fading from those blue eyes. A bit. He stared at Darcy almost frantically, whispered in a tight voice, “Thank you.”

Darcy nodded, gave Chris a friendly smile. “Not at all. My pleasure. I’ve gotten meself settled in here, nice little town ye have. People seem very...curious.”

“That’s polite,” Vin observed laconically, from the desk.

Darcy tilted his head. “Well, it’s the way I was raised.”

His eyes slid to Chris, who was staring at the floor, and he said, “Now, Chris, there’s someone with me who wants to see ye.”

Chris looked up, past Darcy, saw Mary, silhouetted in the fading sun. Stared.

“If ye’d rather not - ” Darcy said softly.

Chris blinked, terror and wonder in his weary eyes. Then he said, very quietly, “Mrs. Travis?”

Mary walked forward, a few small steps, hesitant. What was she going to say? Her heart pounded in her chest, so hard it hurt, but when she came closer she looked into his eyes, so big and blue and overflowing with pained remorse that it reminded her of her son, Billy, whenever he’d committed some childish transgression. They were just like that, huge and terrified that the world he knew was over, that he’d broken it and it was beyond repair. And she would take him in her arms, hold him close and say, it’s all right, sweetheart, I know you’re sorry, we can fix it. You’ll see. It’ll be better than new...

Chris looked like that, just now. His eyes, tougher and older than Billy’s but full of the same fear, the same sorrowful realization. I broke my world, and I can’t fix it alone. Help me.

Mary came to the bars, unaware that Darcy had backed away, that he and Vin were slipping quietly out the front door. She couldn’t embrace Chris like she could her son, but maybe there was something she could do...

And then she was there, standing a foot away from the man she’d been thinking about for over a month. Longer, really. And she was amazed - there was none of the danger, none of the barely-constrained fury she associated with Chris Larabee. When his eyes met hers, so close now, she saw so clearly the regret, the sadness, the shame of his wounded soul.

She couldn’t embrace him. She touched his hand.

And, surprisingly, he took it, held it, strong, trembling, leaned his forehead against the bars and let his blond hair fall into those tormented eyes, shaded against the golden light.

“I am so sorry.” he whispered, and it was not the Chris she knew at all. There was anger, but at himself, not at the world or anyone else. He was sorry, she realized, not I-got-caught sorry or if-I-apologize-my-life-will-get-back-to-normal sorry, but sorry in a way that permeated his being, that flowed desperately between their hands as they touched, that saturated the air around him and made tears form in Mary’s eyes. She ached to comfort him, and knew she could never comfort him enough.

The jail fell silent for a moment, and Chris didn’t move. Mary put her hand on top of his, leaned forward so their foreheads were almost touching, and said softly, “Thank you for coming back.”

Chris sighed, a sound between a gasp and a sob, and he said, “I caused so much pain. JD - ”

“Shh,” Mary said, in the same quiet tones she used to comfort her son. “It’s all right now. Mr. Dunne’s getting better, he’s going to be all right. Bringing Mr. Thomas here has helped him, so much.”

Chris closed his eyes a moment. “Josiah told me - they hurt you.”

Mary’s stomach lurched, she didn’t know Chris knew. Sudden nightmare images came back, Domino’s leering face, his rough hands on her wrists, a painful slap. But -

Another sigh from Chris, closer to a cry than before. “I should have been here. They wouldn’t have come near you if I’d been here. God, Mary - ”

Mary inched her way closer, tightened her grip on Chris’ scarred hand. “It’s all right, we got through it. Mr. Standish and the others protected me. Mr. Dunne did as well.”

Chris looked at her, a swift, fleeting look of astonishment, then he leaned his head against the bars again in exhausted regret and moaned, “I can’t make up for it, Mary. I’ll try, the rest of my life. Maybe you don’t believe me, but, God. I am so sorry.”

Mary’s eyes met his again then, and she saw tears standing there, and hurriedly leaned forward and without thinking placed her cheek against his, through the bars, reaching through them to put her hand on the back of his head, and press it to her gently. It felt natural, the right thing to do, just like she had done with her son. She felt him shudder, felt also a tear run between his cheek and hers, and she knew the danger was out of him, for the moment, and she was holding not an arrogant, drunken maniac, but a frightened, penitent child.

“I know you’re sorry,” Mary whispered against Chris’ cheek, and blinked away the tears in her eyes, “And I forgive you.”

Chris did let out a sob then, a stifled, choking cough, and he pulled back a little, out of Mary’s reach. He slid his hand from hers and stood back from the bars, the blond hair still in his eyes, his lined face stark in the last rays of the setting sun, and streaked with tears. He looked at her with eyes that were naked and opened straight into his soul. Mary stared at him, too awestruck to look away.

Chris struggled for a moment to retain his composure, then cleared his throat and said in a whisper, “Thank you, Mrs. Tr - ” He cleared his throat again, looked at the floor. “Thank you, Mary. It means a lot.”

Mary kept her hands on the bars for a few moments, nodded even though Chris wasn’t looking at her. She didn’t know how long she remained standing there, looking at Chris’ face as he stared at the floor, but before long she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, and turned to see Vin standing there, Darcy behind him.

“You should go now, ma’am,” Vin said softly, guiding Mary away from the bars. Mary nodded, felt suddenly numb and like she wanted to sit down somewhere. Was the sun down already? She hadn’t even eaten...

As Vin helped Mary out the door, Darcy stepped up to the bars and tilted his head. “Chris?”

Chris looked up, started a bit, peered at Darcy in the darkness.

The Irishman smiled at him. “I just wanted to say, courage. Ye’re on the road to making amends. Yer wife and son are cryin’ with pride for ye.”

Chris sighed hugely, ran his hands over his face, and sat down on the cot.

“It’s all I have, Darcy,” he said, the weariness of a thousand years in his voice. “It’s all I have.”

  
  


More time passed, and JD continued his slow, painful climb up the unscalable mountain of his infirmities. Every day Darcy would wake him early and make sure he had a good breakfast in him, then it was off to the room to resume his exercises. Darcy allowed one of the other men in the room at that time, and only one. Usually it was Buck, but the others wanted to be there too, so sometimes it was Josiah, or Nathan, or Ezra. Vin came too, but he spent more time in the jail, talking to Chris, and he remarked to Darcy once that Chris’ first question when he saw his friend was always the same: how is JD? And he always seemed grateful when Vin answered him.

Vin and Josiah saw Chris often, and while they spoke about it among themselves, as agreed the subject never came up when they were with the others unless Buck, Nathan, or Ezra mentioned it first, and they almost never did. Josiah noticed the nightly poker games were becoming more terse and cross, and that he was keeping company with Vin more and more often, while Buck and Ezra went off by themselves, to brood in the saloon or go riding in the hills. Their group was splintering, and Josiah noticed this. The only times they came together was when they were around JD, and when the town needed them. And then they responded as if nothing had ever happened.

Some days the therapy would be interrupted by gunfire, or JD would hear the thunder of horses’ hooves as Darcy put him through his therapy; then the youth would stop whatever he was doing and turn his head toward the window in breathless recognition. Darcy remarked to Buck that when he saw JD’s face at those moments, he could see them all riding together in the boy’s eyes, as if it were a lantern show. Buck would sigh, and nod. They all missed JD, but it was the youth’s heart that broke when he heard the hoofbeats fading, and knew he couldn’t go along. And those were the days, Darcy noticed, when he would push himself to the brink of collapse. And still lie awake long past a reasonable hour, to hear the day’s adventures when his friends came home.

Darcy elected to sit in sometimes, and listen to JD’s comrades relate the villains they’d faced, the deeds they’d done, the near-misses they’d had in his absence. As sad as JD’s face was when he heard the mens’ shouts and knew they were leaving again, it would light up at the sight of Vin coming in, all dusty and smiling, or Buck, wiping soot or, sometimes, blood from his person as he slung himself into a chair and in a loud voice asked the kid how the hell he was doing.

These were embellished stories, Darcy knew they had to be, but still it was thrilling to hear about how Nathan and Ezra chased a bank robber clean to Eagle Bend, or how Josiah stared down a band of Concho’s followers, who hadn’t heard of their leader’s demise and decided to take over the saloon. Ezra in particular was an excellent storyteller, and always in his versions he was charming, or conning, or romancing somebody. And always, as the others told their tales, JD’s face would light up, and he’d laugh and ask questions, and Darcy could see him straining to get out of that bed, frantic with the will to walk, and ride, and be with his friends again. The hours passed pleasantly this way until JD yawned and fought to keep his eyes open, and Darcy would notice and shoo everyone out of the room. JD would give him a sleepy glare and say he didn’t need a babysitter, but usually by the time Darcy had closed the door and turned to dim the lamp, JD would be curled up and asleep. And dreaming his own stories.

Those were good days, the days when there seemed to be hope that perhaps JD’s dream of them all riding together didn’t seem so far-fetched. It felt comfortable and balming to have the stories to share, the eager audience, all of them gathered around JD’s bed as if he was just laid up with a sprained ankle or some such irritating but small malady. Those days he would laugh, and smile, and look at his friends with an expression of flushed impatience, as if he could push time faster, heal faster, just to get out of bed and be back in the world again. Josiah would watch the others on those days, and nights, and think about how it seemed that Chris was just out of the room, or out somewhere taking the head off whoever had injured JD, and would be back, sharing a quiet in-joke with Buck or giving Nathan the praise he deserved for taking care of their youngest member so well. Chris was just gone for a while; soon he would return, and then everything would be right and complete. Those were good days.

Then there would be bad days, and Josiah knew it might never be right again.

Darcy had always said JD’s recovery would be slow, that there would be times when he would not seem to improve, that the exhaustion brought on by his relentless drive to get better might bring on the occasional fever, or cold, or other illness that would hamper him for a few days. Everyone knew this, and accepted it. But when it happened, it still troubled them. And it hurt.

JD would insist on trying even when he was exhausted or sick, pressing himself beyond his limit. They all found he was skillful at hiding a painfully sore joint or splitting headache, until he healing body couldn’t take the strain anymore and he collapsed halfway through the day, in terrible pain and unable to continue. Buck was often there on those days, as if, Darcy once noted to Nathan, he could sense when the boy was going to push himself too far, and was determined to be there to catch him when the time came. And he caught him every time.

On those days there was no laughter, no stories of daring, no sparkling hazel eyes full of anticipation of a long-awaited recovery. Instead, the brotherly embrace, the worn out body carried gently back to bed with the struggling spirit still trapped inside, discouraged and mute. And then, a silent filing from the room, the men going to sit in the saloon or on the wide porch outside Nathan’s room, and wait until Darcy came to tell them that JD was asleep, and needed to take it easy for a few days. Then Josiah, who was there more often than not, would read his friend’s faces and begin to lose hope.

Vin would look sad, preoccupied, often slipping away to see if anyone needed help, or seek the restoration of the mountains. Ezra and Buck would glower at each other, Buck never sitting but pacing or leaning against a wall with his arms folded, as if every step backward that JD took sent him back to that first, awful day, and that day’s anger; Josiah knew how he felt, knew also the burning dread he felt in his own gut when he saw how downcast JD was on those bleak and sunless days. On those days, Chris’ absence was a reminder that he was responsible, that he wasn’t out on an errand but sitting in the jail, and he had hurt JD, who was sick and failing and losing ground. Josiah could see the rift between them on those days, and watched it widen with a troubled heart.

Nathan usually stayed behind on the bad days, helping Darcy settle JD down and mixing tonics for him while the doctor checked the youth over for injuries he was trying desperately to hide. And it was Nathan’s face that troubled Josiah the most on those days, because when he did eventually show up, sometimes with Darcy and sometimes later, his expression would be tense and furious, his dark eyes full of a rage Josiah knew was being kept barely contained. On those days Josiah would quietly move to a table by himself, and Nathan would join him, not saying anything but staring into his beer with smoldering fury. The fury of the former slave witnessing the scars of brutality, and in the air the unasked question Josiah knew Nathan burned to ask, and hadn’t yet: How could you, Chris. How could you.

But the question went unasked, the beer was drunk in silence, and Josiah watched his friend with the scarred back and the unasked questions and worried about him, wondering when the dam would break.

And then, one day, it broke...

  
  


It had been raining all day, and the air was laden with a heavy misery. The lamps were burning brightly in the therapy room, but despite their forced cheerfulness and Nathan and Buck’s helpful presence, Darcy was frowning at JD as the boy struggled his way toward where the doctor was kneeling in front of him. Nathan shifted against the wall and looked at Buck, not liking the concerned expression on the physician’s face, or the creeping anger in his own heart as he watched JD fight to gain another slow, agonizing inch, grunting and straining with the exertion. Nathan sighed and ducked his head. It shouldn’t be like this.

Finally JD paused, breathing heavily. Darcy leaned forward and put a hand on the youth’s shoulder.

JD, whose eyes had been glazed over in concentration, blinked and shook the sweat-covered hair out of his eyes, looking at Darcy in fatigued irritation. “What?”

“Would ye like to take a few minutes, JD?” Darcy asked gently. “Ye’ve been taking it rather strongly today.”

JD shook his head, his expression set and determined in spite of his labored breathing. “No, I’m fine. I’m not tired.”

“Well, I am,” Darcy said quietly, and patted the boy gently on the shoulder. “So if ye don’t mind, we’ll take about five minutes. Is that all right?”

JD paused, swallowed hard. Then he nodded and folded his hands, setting his head on them and closing his eyes. “Sure, I guess. If you want.”

“Thank ye,” Darcy said lightly, standing up as Buck left Nathan’s side and brought over a blanket, draping it over JD so he wouldn’t catch a chill. The men’s eyes met, and each held the same expression of tired concern. Buck’s eyes held thanks. Darcy received them with a nod, and looked down at the half-asleep youth lying on his stomach on the floor.

Nathan came over with a glass of water. Bending down in front of JD he said quietly, “Son? You want some water?”

JD shook his head lazily, not even looking up.

Nathan sighed, felt his insides wrench with a too-familiar helplessness. He stood up and regarded the two other men as they walked carefully away from JD, toward the window.

Once there, Darcy folded his arms and stared out at the pouring rain. “Gentlemen, if ye don’t mind I’d say today’s exercises are over. The poor boy’s exhausted, he’ll not make any progress today.”

Nathan and Buck both nodded. Buck asked, “He’s not sick again, is he? I mean, didn’t he just get over that cold he had last week?”

Darcy shook his head, peered at JD’s dozing form in frustration. “No, it’s no fever he has, but then it could be any of a number of other things. And I’ll be damned if he’ll give me a clue.”

Nathan’s eyes clouded as he watched JD clutch a bit at the blanket, and pull it tighter around himself. “I bet his shoulder’s botherin’ him again. He’s always pretendin’ it don’t hurt, but I saw him wincin’ this morning, when he was pullin’ on it. Prob’ly he’ll have to leave it alone for a little while.”

“Good luck,” Buck muttered.

Darcy nodded in agreement, regarded the small dark-haired figure some feet away with compassion. “He’ll crawl over burning coals to get better, and kill himself doin’ it. Stubborn Irish pride.”

Buck shrugged a bit, and a fond smile crossed his face. “That’s JD, doc. You oughta know by now.”

“Yes.” Darcy’s half-smile matched Buck’s, and he looked out the window onto the wind-swept street.

“He shouldn’t be goin’ through that,” Nathan said sullenly as he watched the falling raindrops slither down the window glass. He tried to fight the fury that was making its way up his spine, knew this wasn’t the time or place for his opinions. But he couldn’t help it. As Darcy met his eyes, Nathan’s anger bubbled over, and he decided it was time to let it out.

“It ain’t right,” Nathan muttered with a scowl, his eyes traveling to the jail house some distance away. In the thick silence that followed he said, “I know you’re friendly with Chris and all that, but what that boy’s goin’ through should be happenin’ to Chris, not him. That’s the way it should be.”

Buck’s head was down, looking at his boots. Darcy didn’t argue. In fact, to Nathan’s surprise he didn’t say anything, simply looked out the window wistfully and listened to the rain.

Nathan glared at the misting air, felt himself sinking a little deeper into the now-familiar discontent and didn’t try to stop it. “Man comes back and says he’s sorry, makes some fancy show of sittin’ in a jail, what does that prove?”

He knew his voice was rising, looked over and saw a curious look in Darcy’s eyes, waited for the argument.

But when Darcy opened his mouth, it was only to say, “I see ye still have yer questions for Mr. Larabee.”

Nathan paused a moment, then nodded firmly. “You’re damn right I do.”

Darcy’s calm eyes studied the rain. “When is he going to know them, then?”

Not for a while, Nathan was about to say, not until JD’s better and I’ve got the time and the energy to be furious at the world. But he didn’t say it, because at that instant all three men heard a loud groan behind them, and turned as one.

Buck was first to JD’s side, where the boy was coiled up on his left side in the blanket, his eyes shut and his head shaking rapidly, as if trying to clear away some unwanted vision. Without hesitation, Buck knelt down by JD’s side and said softly, “Hey, JD? Wake up, buddy, you’re havin’ a nightmare.”

JD twitched and moaned again, covering his face with one hand while he snatched at the blanket with the other. He didn’t wake up.

Darcy knelt on JD’s other side, his expression openly worried. “Has he had these often?”

Buck shrugged, too involved with JD to answer. The boy was muttering broken sentences, unintelligible except for a word here and there, pausing only to softly cry out and try to hide his face.

“He had a couple, early on,” Nathan answered instead, feeling his anger knot up and lay in his stomach as he watched JD’s struggles. “But we thought they were over with. Guess we was wrong.”

JD let out a gasping whimper, then thrashed over onto his other side so quickly Darcy and Nathan had to jump backward to avoid being hit by his rolling form.

Alarmed, Buck leaned forward and grabbed at JD’s left shoulder. “JD, wake - ”

The instant Buck’s hand closed around JD’s shoulder, the boy’s eyes flew open and in a strangled voice he screamed, “Chris, DON’T!”

Everything stopped, froze. Nathan felt a cold chill rage through him. Darcy stared as Buck’s face went white, and he released the grip on JD’s shoulder as if it had suddenly caught fire. JD blinked once, twice, shook his head a little and looked around for a moment before shrinking back onto the floor, where he ran his hand over his face and groaned.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered in a small, shaky voice. “Oh, shit, it was - I thought I was - ” He lifted his head, saw Buck over his shoulder, the stunned look on the man’s face.

“Buck - ” JD gasped in a tear-filled voice. “I didn’t...did I say anything? I thought you...you were...”

Buck tried to smile, tried valiantly, and put a reassuring hand on the youth’s head, slowly and carefully. “I know, kid, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

JD shivered, coiled himself up tighter in the blanket. Darcy bent down, tugged the blanket more snugly around the boy’s collar.

“Let’s get you to a softer bed, lad,” he said in the gentlest of tones. “Ye’ll be stronger tomorrow, I promise.”

JD buried his face in his hands, didn’t look up. “I thought he was Chris,” he whispered miserably.

“It’s all right, son,” Darcy soothed as he stroked JD’s hair to calm him down. “Mr. Wilmington knows ye meant him no harm.”

As Darcy said this, Nathan stood up, very slowly, and Buck stood up with him. Nathan stared at his friend, knew that the knots of anger were coming undone within him, unknotting and stretching and growing to knot again, like a hangman’s noose, and he was sick of it. Sick of standing by and watching while his friends suffered, sick of being helpless and sick of waiting for the right time. Sick of seeing life being torn apart, over and over.

Sick of it.

Buck saw the fire in Nathan’s eyes, didn’t turn away from it, and when JD let out a little cry of pain, Nathan saw Buck’s eyes flare too, and he knew.

It was past time for questions. It was time for answers.

Without another word, Nathan stepped away from Darcy and JD, fetched his hat, and walked out of the room, down the hall, and into the pouring rain.

  
  


Josiah was sitting at the sheriff’s desk with his arms crossed, half-dozing and watching the rain outside, when suddenly the outside door opened with such a loud bang that he jumped out of the chair and drew his gun even before his bleary eyes had found their target.

After a few blinks, the preacher saw Nathan’s eyes glaring back at him from underneath a broad-brimmed hat dripping with rain. His eyes were hot and full of accusation, enough to make Josiah search his friend’s face as he put up his gun, his own eyes asking, are you all right?

Nathan stared at Josiah a moment, his jaw setting firmer as his eyes answered, ask me in ten minutes. Then he turned and stormed toward the cell.

The jailhouse was dark, gloomy. The air in it suffocated Nathan, or was it his own rage? He couldn’t tell. Maybe it was being in the same room with this man, this monster who was becoming the focus of all injustice to Nathan, all that was wrong in the world. He’d put up with that injustice too long, bound its wounds and lived its nightmares until he knew it had to stop, had to. And now was the time.

Chris was just barely visible in the darkness at the back of the jail, a hunched-over figure sitting on the edge of his cot, his dark clothes blending into the shadows until he was a mere mosaic against the blackness. He had heard Nathan’s footsteps, he had to, but Nathan wasn’t satisfied with the slow way Chris was turning his head at the sound, saw insolence and apathy in the shadows of that dingy cell. _No, you’re going to listen to me._ So as soon as he reached the bars, Nathan grabbed the iron bars of the door and rattled them loudly, until the whole frame shook.

“Get up, Chris,” he said, feeling his anger wrap itself around his words until they didn’t sound like his at all. “Get up, dammit. You and me is gonna have some words.”

_God, did I just say that?_ I never talked to Chris like that in all the time I’ve known him...but Chris did get up, a slow shimmer in the black-and-white dimness. Nathan stared at him, into a face made gray and ghostly by the low light, and gripped the iron bars as a wave of outrage swept over him. Images veered through his mind, JD bleeding and unconscious in the alley, the hitching whimper and wide-open eyes huge with shock; a pale, unmoving face dark with bruises, broken ribs and a bloody scar; a crumpled-up figure cowering and crying under a desk, desperate with pain and fear, and despair, soul-numbing despair, never going to walk again, never going to ride again, and even now, Chris don’t, maybe nightmares for the rest of his life, just like me.

Just like me. You bastard.

Nathan still held the bars, feeling the rough, rusted iron beneath his hands as Chris made his slow way forward. They feel like chains, like manacles, and an old anger rose in him then, mingled with the new until the two were united and indistinguishable, and Nathan seethed with rage. Keep your head. Don’t lose it now. Josiah’s right behind you and you know he won’t hesitate if you try anything he won’t shoot but he knows how to knock somebody out...

Chris came close enough for Nathan to see his face clearly, and Nathan breathed in, deep and slow, looked into the eyes he could hardly face those weeks ago when Chris first came home. At first it was hard to see Chris’ eyes, the rainy darkness was so deep and there was no light. But gradually they appeared, and Nathan tightened his jaw, fought against himself, for suddenly he saw not Chris the monster, not Chris the embodiment of all of his anger, but Chris the man who had saved his life, Chris the man who had fought by his side and whose word he’d followed as a leader and a friend. _Don’t look at his eyes._ They’ll lie to you. But it took a moment to look away from them, because Nathan saw something there, something he had not expected to see, and it had shocked the anger out of him, for a moment.

Tears. Chris Larabee had been crying.

_No, those ain’t real._ He thought about his past, his own masters, about the men who bemoaned the sorry state of the slave even as they beat theirs into soulless submission. The images of JD resurfaced, and Nathan concentrated on them, relived those horrific first days, the blood and the anguish and the youthful gasps of pain, heard them until his anger came back. Then he looked at Chris again and felt only wrath. His compassion had been carefully roped off, and was no longer reachable.

Nathan took another deep breath, glowered at Chris, was surprised at the huskiness of his own voice, the rancor in it as his hatred poured out of him like boiling water. “Just came from seein’ JD. You messed him up real good, Chris, but he’s fightin’ back, thought you should know that.”

Chris’ head was down, and Nathan couldn’t see his eyes anymore. _He’s hiding._ And it infuriated him more. Shaking the bars of the cell he yelled, “You look at me, God damn it!”

Chris looked up, jumped a little bit, stared, almost looked frightened.

Frightened. Nathan looked into that haggard face. Chris, frightened. Huh. Don’t be fooled...

“You see these hands?” Nathan asked, releasing the bars and holding them in front of himself. “They had JD’s blood all over them, thanks to you. He’s got a scar, he’s gonna have that the rest of his life to remind him of how his biggest hero beat him half to death.”

A flicker of something across Chris’ face then, but he didn’t look away. Nathan saw his lips go pale, and hesitated. He had seen men under strain before, and when he’d mentioned JD, Nathan saw something break behind Chris’ eyes, and thought he had perhaps gone too far.

But no, not yet. Chris may be repenting, he may be doing his time, but Nathan wanted answers, dammit, and he wasn’t leaving without them. To hell with feeling sorry for Chris. No one felt sorry for him.

Nathan opened his mouth, looked into Chris’ eyes, saw an unmistakable anguish there and checked himself. The man looked somehow fragile all of a sudden, and against his own reason Nathan pulled his fury back and in a quieter voice said, “You hurt that boy pretty bad, Chris, and you know it was because you was drunk. You could have stopped it, Chris, and you didn’t, and we all been through hell because of that. I came here because I got to know why.”

Chris looked down at the floor again, quickly, then back at Nathan, and it was a calmer look, Nathan realized, calmer but no less tortured. The healer waited for his onetime friend to say something, to defend himself, to try to come clean. Just try, Nathan found himself thinking, the anger returning, dull and hot. I dare you.

But Chris said nothing. He simply stared at Nathan, stared so intently that Nathan began to feel as if Chris was trying to exchange souls, trying to climb into Nathan’s eyes so they could trade places. It was unsettling, a look Nathan had never seen before, but it angered him as well, because no one had ever wanted to be him, be a slave, ever. What the hell was going on?

Chris blinked, shook his head. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, looked at the floor and sighed. Nathan was puzzled, couldn’t believe that Chris hadn’t at least put on the belligerence he was so full of, hadn’t said I’m sorry or I’m trying to pay my debt, can’t you see that, leave me alone. Instead, he looked like he was going to cry, like he did when they went to his ranch that one time and he was standing at Sarah and Adam’s graves. And Nathan could see, it wasn’t an act.

Finally, Chris looked up again, and his eyelids stammered open and closed as he looked at Nathan. When he spoke, his words were so soft Nathan at first thought he must be sick. But he wasn’t.

“You got wounds on your back, Nathan,” Chris said in a low moan. “I know what those are and I know how you got them, and I know there’s nothing a man can say that’s gonna take ‘em away. I wish there was.”

Nathan blinked, frowned. Waited.

“JD’s got scars now,” Chris whispered, blinked again, rapidly. “Nothing I say will take them away, no excuse I give or deed I do is gonna help them. If there was, I’d do it. If there was a way for me to take his wounds, I’d let you in here right now so you could give them to me. You stitched him up, you...you know where he was hurt, how deep and how bad. And if you wanted to hurt me in kind - ”

Nathan felt a chill suddenly go through him, stared as Chris brought his eyes up, his expression was almost desperate with grief.

Chris paused, then said, “If you wanted to hurt me, like I hurt JD, if I thought it would help...I’d let you do it.”

Nathan took an involuntary step back. That wasn’t what he wanted, he wasn’t into revenge, not like Buck was or Ezra. He just wanted...

He licked his lips, found his voice, it was thinner than before, and huskier still. “Ain’t no cause for that. Just - didn’t know how you could do it, Chris. Don’t understand it.”

“I know.” Chris ducked his head back down again. “You wouldn’t, Nathan, and I hope you never do. You’re angry, but you don’t hurt folks who care about you. I do...I did. I ain’t got what you have. Wish I did.”

What I have? What do I have, except a back full of marks and resentment I can’t get rid of?

“You’re a better man than me,” Chris murmured, as if Nathan had asked him his thoughts out loud. The rain was loud outside, the room so dark and quiet it sounded like a battle outside. And still Nathan could hear Chris’ quiet words as if he were shouting. “You ask how I could be so violent, so stupid. There are good men on this earth, men like you, and I don’t learn from ‘em. I’m blind, like too many people in this godforsaken country.”

Chris paused, wiped at his face, and Nathan saw him wince, as if a painful thought struck him.

“I ain’t had your life, Nathan. Nobody ever tied me up and whipped me. Nobody ever made me work a day I didn’t get paid for it, ‘cept once.”

Nathan shivered again, knew Chris was thinking about the time he was unjustly incarcerated, beaten and locked up and forced to bear the anonymous name of Inmate Seventy-Eight.

The bitterness of that time was in Chris’ words as he repeated, “’Cept once, and it nearly made me lose my mind. Nearly made me an animal, and you lived that way half your life. I don’t know how you could do it, Nathan. They beat you and chained you and gave you every reason to hate the world’s guts and get drunk every night. But you turned out better than me, a pampered white boy from rural Indiana. How could you do that, Nathan? I don’t understand. Maybe I can’t. If I did...I don’t think JD would have those scars.”

Nathan felt a shock, looked into Chris’ eyes and saw a desperate longing for knowledge, coupled with a self-loathing so acute Nathan realized he’d never seen it in a white man’s eyes before.

A few moments passed in utter silence, as the two men regarded each other. Nathan’s mind worked, worked some more. He had come to the jail fully expecting a sullen, combative man lurking behind these iron bars. He did not expect someone to look at him as if they wanted to die and say, I wish I was like you. No, Nathan wasn’t expecting that, and it disturbed him that that was what he had gotten.

_I better go._ As Chris lowered his head, Nathan backed away from the bars a step.

“Nathan.”

He stopped, eyed Chris uncertainly.

The other man lifted his head, said softly, “You deserve answers to your questions. I don’t have ‘em I guess, just...don’t stop askin’ till you know. Don’t give up. That’s where I went wrong, and I’ll be spendin’ the rest of my life payin’ for it.”

Nathan looked Chris up and down, judged the aching sincerity of his words, and slowly nodded.

He still didn’t understand, didn’t know why Chris wasn’t fighting him. The man seemed to have no walls left, and Nathan had the uncomfortable feeling he was looking at a naked soul.

The rain continued, rattling and beating against the jailhouse windows, and Nathan listened to it for a moment, watched as the shimmering daylight cascaded over the floor, to dimly illuminate the small patch of oak boarding where he stood. He felt like the falling rain, like a thousand small pieces of confusion, his anger and betrayal and hurt battling with the knowledge that, if he decided to take Chris apart for his sins, the other man wouldn’t fight him, accepted his guilt with a grace Nathan had seldom seen before. He didn’t know what to do with it.

Josiah was still behind him, still standing by the desk, gun out and eyes wary. Nathan turned and looked at him for a moment, wanted to ask, do you know what’s going on? Is this really Chris?

But instead he shrugged his jacket tighter around his shoulders, and without saying another word abruptly turned away from the cell and walked quickly past Josiah, and out the door into the rain.

Nathan got as far as the porch, put a hand onto the slick wet wood of a nearby post to steady himself when he felt Josiah’s hand on his arm. Turning, he looked into those infinitely compassionate eyes and winced.

“He’s a changed man, Nathan,” Josiah said, his words mingling with the falling rain. “I wanted you to know, it’s not an act.”

“I know that,” Nathan responded almost defensively. He glanced across the street, at the churned-up mud of the narrow street. “I guess I didn’t before, but - ” He paused, shrugged. “I don’t know what to say, Josiah. He just ain’t what I expected.”

The preacher nodded, turned to lean against another post as he took off his hat. “Not the old Chris Larabee, that’s for sure.”

Nathan nodded, thought, the naked soul. Eyeing Josiah keenly he asked, “How come he lost so much weight? Prison food really that bad?”

It was a joke, but Josiah wasn’t even smiling as he shook his head.

“He knows JD is havin’ a bad day,” he said, and his tone was somber. “When that happens, Chris won’t eat.”

Nathan looked over sharply, didn’t believe it. “He won’t eat?”

Josiah looked down at the grey mud, shook his head. “Loses his appetite, he says. Vin and me both got on his back about it, but it doesn’t do any good.”

Nathan stared out at the rainy day, suddenly felt desolate. JD was likely in bed by now, exhausted and heartsick, and Chris was in the darkness of the jail and wouldn’t eat.

Josiah lifted his head, squinted into the half-lit sky. “Never liked rain much. Good for the plants I suppose, but it always weighs the day down, makes you feel like there should be a funeral goin’ on.”

Nathan sniffed, pulled his jacket tighter around himself.

Josiah glanced at him before leaning away from the pillar, toward the jailhouse door. “Tell JD I hope he -”

“Wait.”

Josiah stopped, looked back at Nathan, who straightened himself up to stand next to the pillar he’d been leaning against. He regarded Josiah with uncertain eyes, bleak as the drizzling rain but struggling to become warm.

There was a pause, and in that pause the rain pattered, a wagon went by, a horse whinnied somewhere. A universe lived in that silence, and Josiah heard it all, saw it all in the eyes of the former slave that stood before him. Rage and anger, understanding and - not forgiveness, not yet, but...something. Something. Josiah waited.

Then Nathan gestured vaguely toward the jail and said softly, “Tell that man to get some food in him before he starves to death.”

The quiet splatter of rain running into the water barrels, the screech of a wagon reluctantly braking. And somewhere across the street, voices laughing and talking in the dreary afternoon.

Josiah stared at Nathan, then realized he was waiting for a reply, and slowly nodded his head.

And watched as Nathan nodded back, turned, and walked away into the drizzling grey afternoon.

  
  


Darcy spent the rest of that day, and most of the night, sitting in JD’s room and making sure the youth was calmed down and comfortable. He and Buck had gotten JD settled back in his bed, but it took another half-hour and some of Nathan’s tonic to get the boy to sleep, and Darcy predicted that he would be awake again, soon, long before morning. And so, when JD opened his eyes and rolled over at eleven-thirty that night, he saw the lamplit form of Darcy Thomas sitting quietly a few feet away, and rubbed his eyes.

“Evening, Mr. Dunne,” Darcy said softly, tucking what JD knew was that daguerreotype back into his pocket. “How are ye feeling?”

JD shrugged, looked at Darcy in puzzlement. “What are you here for?”

“For yer welfare, son,” the physician said as he stood and came closer to the bed. “I promised yer friends I’d look out for ye, and fortunately for them I don’t charge by the hour. Are ye needin’ anything?”

JD batted his eyes to clear them, shifted in the bed, winced as his sore muscles made themselves known. He felt drowsy and only half-there, thought, something happened today, something bad; then he remembered what it was and shrank away from it, down into the sheets.

“I’m all right,” he lied, wishing for the millionth time everybody would stop treating him like a big baby, and in the same mental breath wishing his mother was there to calm the heart that was beating in his chest like a runaway horse. He’d yelled at Buck, thought he was Chris. God, that was stupid...but he’d been so scared, thought it was happening again... no, don’t want to ever feel like that again, not ever...

Darcy tilted his head, seemed to accept JD’s words. “If ye say so, lad, I’ll not be troubling ye any further. Get some rest, and I’ll see ye in the morning.”

JD watched his benefactor turn away, clawed at the desperate fear that suddenly gripped his throat, tried to push it from him, but it came back, stronger. Suddenly he said, “Um, wait a minute.”

Darcy turned back.

JD fiddled with the sheets, didn’t meet Darcy’s eyes. “Um, if you want you could mix me some more of that tonic Nathan gives me sometimes, before you go...just, you know, just in case...”

He’d tried to sound casual about it, like he really didn’t care, but Darcy sat back down again, slowly, pulled the chair close and said in a concerned tone, “Is it the nightmares, JD? The ones about Chris?”

_Aw, nuts._ JD decided not to deny it. Darcy had been in the exercise room - he’d seen the whole thing. Still not meeting the older man’s eyes JD said, “Yeah, I guess. It’s stupid, but - but you know, when you give me that stuff I don’t have them. I sleep so deep I don’t dream at all.”

Darcy sighed. _Rats, he probably thinks I’m some sort of addict or something._ I’ll bet he won’t give me anything to help me sleep. Damn, damn, damn.

But remarkably, after a moment’s pause, Darcy rose from the chair and went over to where Nathan kept his herbs and went through the motions that to JD were as familiar now as saddling a horse. His heart eased, and he lay back against the pillows and waited for Darcy to finish making the drink.

“Ye know, JD,” Darcy said conversationally as he picked among the herbs and powders. “Ye’re the bravest man I know, but so young t’be out here without yer folks. Do they know where ye are?”

JD frowned. “My mama died last year. My pa don’t care where I am.”

Darcy nodded, said nothing.

JD thought a moment. “You would have liked my mama. She was always talking about Ireland.”

Darcy glanced over his shoulder. “From the Isle, was she?”

JD shook his head. “But her mother was. She knew all about it, used to tell me we’d go there someday. She could talk that - Irish language - ”

“Ye mean Gaelic,” Darcy said with certainty.

JD nodded, smiling at the word. “Mm-hmm. When I was little she spoke it to me all the time.”

“And I’ll bet ye didn’t understand a word,” Darcy guessed as he poured water into the glass in front of him.

“No.” JD laughed, his hazel eyes half-closing at the memory. He settled back a little more against the pillows, felt himself growing melancholy. “She could sure speak it pretty, though.”

“It’s a beautiful language.” Darcy said appreciatively. “For an elegant, ancient people.”

JD nodded again, sighed.

Darcy glanced at JD again. “Does she speak to ye still?”

JD looked up, confused. “Huh? No, I just said she died last year.”

Darcy nodded, kept his eyes on the drink he was making. “Mine passed away in the great famine, yet to this day I hear her still.” He turned away from the table, glass in hand, and walked toward the bed, speaking softly as he went. “She comes to me, ye see, whenever I’m troubled or in need. An Irish lad’s mother is never far away, JD. Even in death.”

“I - ” JD fumbled for a moment, remembered the darkest, early days after the attack, the feeling he’d had, he was sure she was there, would have sworn it on a stack of Bibles. But - but - he laughed a little, looked down at the quilt. “Sorry, but...that sounds a little crazy.”

“Oh, aye, it does,” Darcy agreed, setting the glass down on the nightstand. “But it’s true. Yer mother knows what ye’ve suffered, and helped ye when she could. She knows yer nightmares, and the black reason for them. Just like she did when she sang them away for ye, when ye were a child.”

JD’s eyes opened. “How did you know that?”

Darcy smiled. “For my mother, it was the Connemora cradle song. One verse of that, sung in her Irish lilt, and I couldn’t be afraid if Lucifer himself was at my heels.”

JD ’s eyes dropped to the covers in his hands. “My mama had a whole bunch of songs, but when I got big enough they put me to work in the stables, and she was always asleep when I got through. I don’t even remember what she sang to me, except one song had something about a minstrel in it.”

Darcy leaned back and with a smile said, “Ye mean ‘Minstrel Boy’?”

JD looked up in surprise. “Is that it?”

Darcy cocked his head and sang, “The minstrel boy to the war is gone, in the ranks of death you will find him...”

“Hey, that is it!” JD exclaimed happily, his face lighting up. “Gosh, I thought she was the only person who knew that song. She sang it slower, though.”

“And higher too, I’ll bet,” Darcy said archly, putting his hands on his pockets and turning away. “Well, the tonic is right there, and if there’s nothing else - ”

“Well, wait a minute!” JD said in exasperation.

Darcy turned back. “Hm?”

“Well - ” JD settled back, eyed Darcy petulantly. “Well, how does the rest of it go? Is there any more to it?”

“Oh - oh, the song?” Darcy asked playfully.

JD nodded insistently.

“Oh. Hm.” Darcy leaned forward and lowered the flame on the bedside lamp, dimming the room into half-darkness. Then he walked slowly around the bed and sat down in the chair next to JD’s bed, cleared his throat and waited until the youth gave a satisfied smile and closed his eyes. Then he sang, slowly, softly, in the gentlest way he knew how:

  
  


The minstrel boy to the war is gone, in the ranks of death you will find him,

His father’s sword he has girded on, and his wild harp slung behind him,

Land of song, said the warrior bard, though all the world betray thee,

One sword at least thy right shall guard, one faithful harp shall praise thee...

  
  


The minstrel fell, but the foeman’s chains could not bring that proud soul under

The harp he loved never spoke again, for he tore its chords asunder,

And said, no chain shall sully thee, thou soul of love and bravery

Thy songs were meant for the proud and free, they shall never sound in slavery.

  
  


Darcy paused, looked through the midnight gloom. JD was asleep, and the tonic sitting next to him untouched.

With a soft smile, the physician slowly rose from the creaking chair and made his way to the door, pausing only a moment as he turned the lamp down to comforting blackness.

Hold him tight, mother, he prayed silently as he looked somberly down at the troubled youth in the narrow bed. His nightmares are very strong...

And quietly left the room.

  
  



	19. Chapter 19

The next day JD awoke refreshed and rested, and gazed in puzzlement at the full glass of tonic by his bed. He’d had such a peaceful sleep he was sure he’d drunk it, and didn’t remember. But it didn’t matter. That day went better, and the day after that, and by the end of the week JD was in the best spirits he had been in for a long time, and all the men felt better about that.

Buck and Ezra still brooded, but Vin and Josiah noticed that Nathan didn’t seem as edgy as he had been. His forgiveness of Chris would not be easy or all at once, they knew, but as the days wore on the healer seemed to relax some, and constantly asked if Chris was putting on any weight. Josiah took this as a positive sign, and looked for brighter days ahead.

Despite his improving mood, JD’s progress was by necessity slow and arduous, and his frustration grew as the weeks passed on. He complained that nothing was happening, that he was just doing the same dumb thing every day while they were all riding off having fun, and all he was getting out of it were sore muscles and a hot bath. But he never said these things to Darcy, because he held the man in a kind of awe. Instead, he groused to Buck, and Nathan, and anyone else who would listen. And they nodded, and said nothing, because they saw the fear in JD’s eyes, the unspoken question in them: what if I don’t get better? What if, after all of this, I still can’t walk?

It didn’t matter that Darcy never heard JD complain. It seemed the physician knew his concerns anyway. No one could figure out how he knew, but one night after JD had once again collapsed into his bed in exhaustion and the others had gone to the saloon for some poker, Nathan invited Darcy to join him on his porch for some whiskey and smokes. After a half-glass’ worth of conversation, Darcy casually mentioned that the others shouldn’t worry if JD didn’t seem to be improving, because he himself would be unaware of the improvement, when it happened. But it had already started.

Nathan, who was endlessly intrigued by all of the healing methods this man knew, eyed Darcy inquisitively and asked him what he meant.

“It’s this way,” Darcy replied, pausing to puff on his pipe and look at the stars. “We do those exercises over and over, get him to use his arms and legs to move, over and over till he’s sick of it. But his head, it’s memorizin’ those movements, and pretty soon it’s like a song ye know by heart, and don’t have to think about to sing. I noticed it today, he’s movin’ a little easier, like he’s not having to concentrate quite so hard. Pretty soon he won’t have to think about it at all.”

Nathan nodded, fascinated. “Then what?”

“Well,” Darcy said as he lowered his pipe, “then we’ll get him up on his knees, so he can learn to crawl and balance himself. And we’ll do that till he’s sick of it, and knows it by heart.”

“And then you’ll teach him to walk?” Nathan said hopefully as he brought his cigar up to take a drag on it.

“Unless the boy decides to take me out with one of his Lightnings first,” Darcy said dryly, bringing his pipe up again. “Then it will be yer job.”

  
  


The following days proved Darcy correct. It was agonizingly slow, so gradual it took Buck and the others days to see it, but it was true: JD was moving forward without thinking about it, without the rivulets of sweat running down his face and without the familiar flush of extreme exertion. He noticed he wasn’t getting quite as sore as he used to, then he wasn’t getting sore at all.

He was getting better. Really getting better. And the night Darcy announced that JD was well enough to begin crawling, Buck threw a party in JD’s room so boisterous the landlord asked them to tone it down. When Buck explained the cause of the uproar, however, the landlord relented, and was sent away with a handful of cigars and an apology to the other tenants, who suddenly didn’t mind so much either.

Chris continued to sit in the jail. The town had actually gotten used to it, used to the dim lamp glowing in the window at all hours, used to Vin or Josiah being at the jail all day. Bets had been made in the saloon as to how long Chris would last in the jail, all cooped up and unable to drink or escape. Ezra knew about these bets, related them to the others with an amused air but did not hide his own skepticism. Chris Larabee and forced confinement did not mix, he said to Josiah after a night of poker and liquor. Even the best of intentions often fade in the glaring light of reality. Mr. Larabee will soon be begging to be released.

For a while Ezra’s doubting had many others to keep it company, for not many in the town thought Chris would last a week locked in a small room without whiskey or women. Certainly he’d demand his release before JD was walking again, that would take months. The people in the town who never cared for Chris nodded their heads sagely, and knew: it was all an act.

But then a month had gone by, and Chris remained in jail. The bandage had come off JD’s arm, and Chris remained in jail. Two more weeks, while his arm regained its strength, and Chris had remained in jail. And then, another month, while JD labored to master the most basic acts of life. And still Chris had remained in the jail.

The town was flabbergasted. Mary reported on JD’s progress in her paper, and began keeping track of Chris’ time after a dozen people asked if it wasn’t too much trouble. She knew she had no right to feel proud of Chris as she added new numbers to each edition, but she didn’t care. She quietly supported Chris’ fight for redemption in her own way, and smiled as she watched the townspeople point to the freshly inked numerals in wonder. And felt proud.

Her pride was somewhat checked, however, when she noticed that the men Chris once led seemed to have different reactions to his continued incarceration. Josiah seemed pleased when she handed him the morning paper, and asked how JD was doing. Vin tipped his hat and thanked her, smiling that mysterious cat’s smile that he always did. Nathan took the paper with its eye-catching numbers as well, not as enthusiastic perhaps, but pleased in his own way. They all seemed to understand the significance of what Chris was doing, and accepted it.

But why did Ezra accept the issue with cool politeness, only to set it down nearby and ignore it? And Buck, normally the very embodiment of joyous good nature, took her paper but quickly folded it down, so the numbers were not visible, all the while frowning at it as if it had insulted him. It was as if knowing Chris’ progress hurt them. They wanted to pretend it didn’t exist.

If JD noticed any dissension among his friends, he didn’t let on. Instead he put his entire youthful heart and soul into walking again, pushing himself until the others became somewhat alarmed. Crawling was more difficult than walking, Darcy warned JD, and cautioned the boy that it would have to be taken slowly. But it was a plea that fell on willfully deaf ears. Every day, as Buck or Nathan or Ezra watched, JD would carefully balance himself on his hands and knees and try, really try, to move without falling. He fell a lot, as Darcy predicted, tumbling onto the soft quilts when his awkward body failed to compensate for the lifted leg or arm. And JD would grunt, or grind his teeth in frustration, and do it again. And again, his hazel eyes blazing with determination, his face red with exertion and dripping with sweat. He tried until Darcy had to practically haul him off the floor, and still he wanted to try some more. Then he was helped to bed, to fall into an exhausted slumber, wake up the next day, and try again.

The days stretched on, and slowly, painfully, JD’s movements became easier, his posture less tottering, his breathing less labored as he pushed himself along. Darcy smiled his encouragement, bought everyone in the saloon a round of drinks, and told the others it would not be long; JD would be on his feet again, and walking. The men exchanged smiles of relief, and Ezra quietly ordered a bottle of champagne from San Francisco. And prepared to celebrate.

  
  


The next day, Vin was sitting quietly at the sheriff’s desk polishing his sawed-off Winchester and occasionally talking to Chris, who was sitting on the cot, idly flipping through a weathered Bible that Josiah had loaned him.

“How many men did you say were after you?” Chris was asking incredulously, looking up from the battered book.

“Six,” Vin answered lazily, running the cloth over the barrel of his gun to watch it glint in the afternoon sunlight.

Chris shot his friend a quizzical look. “But you said you had eight horses after you.”

Vin smiled. “Two of the riders were women.”

Chris smiled and looked down.

Vin set his eyes back on his gun. “Damn good shots too.”

Chris grunted and shook his head. “You’re gonna get that curly head taken clean off your shoulders before you ever get to Tascosa and clear your name.”

Vin grinned a little, kept polishing. “Maybe so. If that’s what’s meant to be.”

Chris shook his head, went back to flipping through the book. Vin eyed him for a moment, then quietly set the gun down and got up, walking slowly toward the cell that Chris had called home for the past three months.

Chris looked up at Vin’s approach, saw the look of concern on the ex-bounty hunter’s face as he eclipsed the afternoon sunlight, cast a long shadow into Chris’ cell as he stood before the bars.

“You know, Chris,” Vin said softly, “lot of folk are talkin’ about how you’re handlin’ this.”

Chris shifted on his cot uncomfortably, then shrugged. “Only way I knew how, Vin.”

“I know, but - ” Vin looped his thumbs through his belt, looked at the floor. “I know it ain’t easy sometimes. You ain’t seen the sun except to go to the outhouse in three months, and I know how it can wear on a man, that kind of life.”

Chris’ eyes clouded, and he gazed at some faraway place behind Vin, that the tracker couldn’t see. “JD would have had that kind of life. Worse than that.”

Vin looked up, met stern blue eyes.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Chris said reproachfully. “I mean it.”

“I don’t,” Vin replied evenly, his face serious and open as the prairie sky. “I just wanted you to know, I respect what you’re doin’, and when you feel like you’ve paid your debt...well, the women in Tascosa are still the liveliest around.”

Chris’ expression changed to mild shock. He blinked at Vin, amazed at what he was hearing. Did Vin just say he’d ride with him again? They’d talked some since his return, mostly about JD and Darcy, but Chris had just assumed that after his attack on JD, none of the men would ever want to associate with him again, once he was a free man.

And now, here was Vin. Solid, steadfast, dependable Vin. Vin, who had risked his life to look after Four Corners after Chris had so thoroughly botched up everything. Vin, who according to Josiah had not taken sides, had looked out for everyone, been everyone’s friend. His friend, whom he wouldn’t deserve if he sat in the jail for twenty lifetimes, and gave his soul to be burned in the bargain. Vin, whom he had unforgivably betrayed.

Saying let’s ride. Saying I still want to be your friend. Saying, I forgive you.

But no, this was wrong, this was -

It was out of Chris’ mouth before he could stop it. “I can’t. Not after this.”

Vin tilted his head, regarded Chris with those calm, unswerving eyes. “After this? You mean after admittin’ you done wrong, and settin’ yourself behind bars? After takin’ care of Concho and savin’ the whole town? After bringin’ that doctor fella to get JD walkin’ again?”

Chris stared at the floor, didn’t speak.

“After this,” Vin said quietly, not moving from the bars, “I reckon I’d be proud to ride with you.”

“You might be the only one,” Chris muttered sourly, almost to himself.

Vin just shrugged. “Just be less crowded is all. Wouldn’t make me less proud.”

“You don’t mean that,” Chris said insistently, looking at his friend with eyes that reflected the self-imposed agony of three long months. “Unless ridin’ with a convicted criminal makes you proud.”

“Well, hell, pard,” Vin said with a tiny smile. “It didn’t bother **you** none.”

Chris started, gazed for a moment at that gently mocking grin in chagrined shock. Then he caught the gleam in Vin’s eye, knew he was stuck. With an annoyed grin he said, “I’m never going to win an argument with you, am I?”

“Nope,” Vin said laconically, and turning away from the bars went back to the desk and sat down, giving Chris one more small grin before his pulled out his harmonica and began to play it.

Chris sighed, and leaned back against the cot, closing his eyes to listen to the music, drift off to sleep, and wonder at the simplicity of the friendship that he couldn’t destroy.

  
  


Two weeks later Darcy came into the saloon with the news that everyone had been waiting to hear: JD was ready to start walking.

He would need everyone’s help, Darcy cautioned, because learning to walk would be more arduous than anything JD had ever done before. Not only to walk, but to walk unaided, would be a very high mountain indeed, and JD needed everyone’s help to climb it.

“What can we do?” Josiah asked, putting down his cards.

“We have the pews set up.” Darcy explained, “But when the lad uses them for balance, he’ll be puttin’ his hands on the backs and throwin’ every ounce of his weight on them. They’ll tip over if there isn’t anything keepin’ ‘em down. I’ll need yer gentlemens’ help gettin’ some stones or bricks to set on the seats, and anchor them down.”

“We can handle that, huh, Josiah?” Buck asked in a teasing voice, slapping his friend on the back. “Josiah here’s real good at movin’ rocks.”

Josiah grinned at the gunslinger. “Shut up, Buck.”

Darcy smiled gently and waited for the joshing to quiet before he said softly, “And I’ll need you gentlemen to look after Mr. Dunne while he’s navigating the pews, to catch him if he falls. And he will, I’m afraid, many times before he masters it.”

The men nodded, their faces understanding the solemnity of Darcy’s words; but their eyes were bright with promise and hope.

Nathan shook his head, clapped Darcy on the back. “You’re a miracle worker, doc. No doubt about it.”

“No, Mr. Dunne is working the miracles,” Darcy said depreciatively. “I’m just tellin’ him how to do it.”

The following morning, and five morning after that, JD found himself standing precariously in between the two heavily-weighted pews from the church, his hands firmly resting on the curved backs, gripping them tightly. One of his friends stood behind him, another in front, and one on either side. Josiah was there as well, having talked Dwight into looking over the jail. Darcy stood a short distance away, his calm Irish lilt instructing JD on how to move himself so he wouldn’t fall. JD listened, nodded, looked up and locked eyes with Buck, saw the desperate intensity there. JD looked back, his own eyes grim and determined. I’m going to do this, they said. No help.

And Buck hadn’t helped, at least had tried not to smother the boy, but it was hard, watching him try so hard to take that first, infant step, only to lean too far and fall into Buck’s outstretched hands. And grunt in anguished disappointment.

But Darcy encouraged JD to keep trying, and every morning for five days JD rose and tried again. And for the same number of nights he went to bed, watched sadly as his friends filed out, not together as they used to but in groups, always Buck and Ezra together, then the others. He tried to swallow his fear, but the taste was bitter. And he didn’t have the nerve to ask.

  
  


On the fifth night, after Josiah helped Darcy set JD in bed for the night, the doctor made to follow the larger man out and was stopped by JD’s sleepy voice calling his name. Turning back, he saw curious hazel eyes staring at him from a face lined with the worry and care of the last three months, and Darcy came back again and sat by JD’s bed, framed in the light from the single bedside lamp.

JD waited until Josiah was gone, then shifted himself around in the bed and said, “Am I ever gonna get better?”

Darcy nodded firmly. “Certainly, JD, I see improvement every day, and before long ye’ll be walkin’ the streets like ye own ‘em. And I’ll be out of a job.”

JD looked down, fiddled with the quilt he clutched in his hands. There was a long pause, and Darcy noticed JD’s face was dark with concentration. Leaning forward, he asked softly, “Are ye feeling all right, JD? Are ye in pain?”

“No,” JD answered quickly, shaking his head and ignoring the long black bangs that fell into his eyes. “No, I’m all right. I just...”

Darcy leaned back again, waited.

JD took a deep breath, let it out again. “They’re all still mad at Chris, aren’t they?”

Darcy blinked, leaned forward again, looked at JD intently without seeming to. JD kept his eyes on the quilt, but there was a tension in his expression, a bewildered confusion that fluttered over his face like a trapped butterfly.

Darcy hesitated a moment before replying. “Aye, son, some of yer friends are. It scared them a great deal, what Mr. Larabee did.”

JD nodded vaguely, lifted his eyes to stare at the wall opposite his bed. “Is anybody talking to Chris?”

“Mr. Sanchez is,” Darcy admitted with a small nod. “And Mr. Tanner, and Mr. Jackson.”

JD’s eyes went to Darcy questioningly. “And you?”

“Occasionally.”

JD nodded again, slightly, sighed long and deep, from his bones. He picked a the quilt sadly, said nothing for so long Darcy considered checking him for a fever. Then he said in a quiet voice, “I wish I could talk to him.”

Darcy leaned far forward, because he could see JD’s eyelids drooping in the lamplight, knew the boy was close to sleep but really wanted to talk. “What would you say to him, JD?”

JD shrugged, nestled back into the pillows. “I don’t know...I’d ask why did he do this to me, I guess. How come he didn’t stay. Whether he’s really sorry, or if he just wants everybody to pity him and say it’s okay.”

Darcy nodded. “You’ll get yer chance, when it’s time.”

There was a long pause,

JD stared glumly into the night air for a moment. “No one’s really getting along anymore, are they? When they come over, Nathan and Josiah don’t talk to Buck and Ezra anymore. Are they really that mad about Chris?”

Darcy sighed a bit, and nodded again. “But don’t worry. I’m sure everything will turn out fine.”

JD shrugged a little, as if trying to pretend it didn’t matter, but as he settled deeper into the covers he muttered, “Everything’s so messed up. And it was really great before.”

Darcy felt a pang in his heart, saw the worried eyes flutter closed, the frowning lips ease a little, then some more. Speaking low, he leaned close and said, “It’ll be all right, JD. Get some rest, now.”

JD nodded, barely, and Darcy watched him, knew in a few moments the boy would be asleep. He waited until he saw the head tilt in repose, saw the black bangs fall across tightly closed eyes, to slowly stand from his chair. And so was surprised when he heard JD speak again, half-asleep, as if in a dream.

“I just wish it was over,” the boy muttered in a slow, dreamy voice.

Darcy sat down again, as silently as he could.

A low sigh, eyebrows a little creased together, as if worried. “I just wish... it would stop.”

Darcy caught the words, put his hand on the covers. “You wish what would stop, JD?”

But the boy was asleep, his face slackening as Darcy looked at it, his head tilting further to one side, the amber lamplight reflecting mellow tones off the pallid face, with its fading scar just above the hairline.

Darcy sighed in resignation and stood once again. Reaching out one hand, he smoothed the errant hair from the damaged forehead, his eyes mournful in the dim golden light.

“Now, why did ye lie to me when I asked if ye were in pain?” he whispered softly. Then, without making a sound, Darcy turned the oil lamp down, and quietly left the room.

  
  


The next morning dawned, clear and warm. And it looked like things would be no different.

They had already been there for two and a half hours, and JD hurt all over. The goal was simple: take a step without holding onto the sides of the pews. And he had come so close, so many times that day. And was about to try again.

Buck was still standing in front of him, hands out in case he fell. Josiah was to his left, had been encouraging JD all morning. Buck didn’t seem to want to look at the preacher. Vin was at JD’s back, and JD noticed Buck throwing tiny little glares over his head, just when he thought JD wasn’t looking, and JD was about to say something about it when Darcy quietly told him to concentrate, and the fight to walk began anew.

It seemed like an eternity, standing at those makeshift bars, all eyes on him as JD battled to summon the strength to take that first, terrifying step. His arms ached from holding his body up, his hair trembled in front of his eyes.

“Take yer time, lad,” Darcy cautioned. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Whenever I’m ready? JD asked himself in shock. I’ve been ready forever! And it’s easier now, it’s got to be. I can crawl all right, it’s not like before when I didn’t know what I was doing.

He took a deep breath, gripped the pew a little tighter. Saw Buck tense, wished he’d go away.

_I can do this._ He heard an echo of that long-ago day when he did think he could walk, but was wrong. He’d fallen then, hard and painfully...

Another deep breath.

...and then asked, hurting from the core of his being, Buck -

Left leg, up. A little. Lean forward, not too far. No, wait, put it down.

\- we’re never going to ride together again, are we?

Move the hands, you’re going to fall...there.

Are we going to ride together again? They’re all mad at each other.

“Just take it easy, son.” Buck said in a soft voice. JD looked up at him, saw the anger behind the concern and thought pleadingly, I want to ride again, Buck. With all of you.

Bring the right leg up, try that one.

We’ve got to be all right, Buck. I don’t know how, it’s so hard, but we’ve got to. This isn’t worth it otherwise. We’ve got to get past all this, and ride together again.

Lean, a little. Let go of the pews, don’t be scared...

Got to.

JD took a step, trembled, lifted his hands a bit, didn’t touch the pews. Concentrate, concentrate. Lifted his other leg, took another hesitant, awkward-

-step.

And -

didn’t-

fall.

There was a brief moment where all time stopped, and then JD realized what he had just done and let out a startled little laugh. He stared at his foot, planted squarely on the floor, at his hands, hovering over the pews but not touching them, and he lifted his head and looked at Buck with wide eyes that sparkled with dawning joy. Buck was grinning, wider and wider, then as the room erupted around them leaned forward and wrapped JD in a strong hug, lifting him off the floor for a moment before setting him down again.

“Ya did it, JD!” Buck enthused as Nathan clapped him on the back. “God damn, son, ya did it.”

“Geez, Buck,” JD muttered in embarrassment, looking around while he straightened his shirt.

“Congratulations, Mr. Dunne.” Ezra smiled as he came forward, as happy as JD had ever seen him. “Tell me, have you ever tasted champagne?”

JD’s eyebrows went up, and he shook his head.

Ezra laughed, and his tone was warm as he said, “You will tonight.”

“Good job, pard.” Came Vin’s quiet tone over JD’s shoulder, and he felt a pat on his back, and smiled, felt warm all over.

“First step, son. We knew you could do it.” Josiah said in his deep tones, solemnly shaking JD’s hand. JD gulped, but saw the twinkle in the big man’s eyes when he looked up. And grinned.

Darcy approached where the men were clustering around JD, his face bright with happiness as he said, “Well done, my boy. Now if we can clear the way, let’s make sure that wasn’t a happy chance.”

“I know,” JD groaned, and rolled his eyes at Darcy. “I gotta do it over and over and over and over...”

“Until you’re runnin’ out that door.” Buck said lightly, and tousled JD’s hair.

JD gasped in irritation, and shook his head to clear the hair out of his eyes. He put his hands on the pews as the men took their positions once again, and when he looked at Buck JD felt that surging ache again, the knowledge that something was missing he just had to get back. Just had to, no matter what it took.

“We’re gonna ride together again, Buck.” JD said in a low, hopeful voice as he locked eyes with his friend, his hands shaking as they gripped the wooden pews. “We are.”

Buck nodded, but JD could tell he didn’t know what he meant.

Darcy’s voice was authoritative and calm. “Once again, Mr. Dunne. If you please.”

And JD didn’t have time to explain.

  
  


The day wore on, turned into night. JD walked, again and again, his face once more beading with the stress of exertion, his eyes shining with sharply focused purpose. It was a long day, demanding and arduous, but at the end of it, when Nathan went to draw a bath for the exhausted youth, the other men in the room exchanged smiles of quiet relief. The worst was over. JD would be completely well again, soon.

JD was so worn out by the day’s events that he barely stayed awake long enough to soak his aching muscles, and was asleep not two minutes after his head hit the pillow. Darcy sighed and wiped his forehead; it had been a long day for him too, and Nathan was quick to offer him, on behalf of the group, a cigar and card game at the saloon. Darcy accepted gratefully, and the men quietly left to celebrate.

All except Buck. As soon as the men had filed out into the hallway, the gunslinger stroked his moustache and said quietly, “You know what, this day’s just plum wore me out. Think I’ll hit the sack early tonight.”

“You sure?” Nathan asked as Darcy slowly clicked JD’s door closed. “Bartender hired a new barmaid. She just might be your type.”

“And what type would that be?” Darcy asked in an amused whisper.

“Upright and breathing.” Ezra replied with a smile.

Buck shook his head, glanced at the closed door to JD’s room before backing towards his own lodgings. “Nah, think I”ll take a pass.”

Nathan shrugged. “Your loss.” And the men went down the hall one way, and Buck went the other, not noticing Darcy’s curious glance as the physician followed the others down the narrow stairs.

  
  


It was a beautiful night, warm and full of brilliant stars. Josiah smiled at the balmy evening the men stepped into, paused and took a breath deep into his lungs.

“If I were a religious man, I’d call this a blessed night,” he said, his low voice a happy purr. “We saw a miracle happen today.”

“Amen to that,” Nathan said as he fished out his cigars and strode toward the saloon.

Vin glanced toward the jail and said, “Save me a spot, boys. I’m going to see how Mr. Dwight is doing.”

The others slowed down for a moment, turned to see Vin amble toward the dimly lit jail.

“Mr. Dwight indeed,” Ezra scoffed, his drawl thick with distaste. “Surely Mr. Tanner does not think we would fall for such a thin ruse.”

“Aw, leave him alone,” Nathan replied, turning back toward the welcoming lights and noise of the saloon. “He wants to talk to Chris, ain’t no crime in that.”

“No, it’s another miracle,” Josiah said softly, nodding as he eyed the jail from under his hat. “Chris has been in there for almost four months, without a drink or anything else to sustain him but his own thoughts. Mighty amazing.”

Ezra looked like he wanted to reply, make some acid remark, and his green eyes were bitter in the moonlight as he stared at the small brick jail. But when he brought his head around his eyes met Darcy’s, and for a moment the man gazed at him, evenly but with a keen awareness that made the gambler visibly uncomfortable.

“This is a night for celebratin’,” the Irishman said in calm, confident tones. “And if the bartender has any, I’d like to treat you gentlemen to some real Irish whiskey.”

Josiah put his hand out toward the swinging doors. “Lead the way.”

Darcy did, Josiah and Nathan joined him, and after watching the distant Vin open the jailhouse door and disappear into its shadowy depths, Ezra slowly turned and followed his friends into the saloon.

  
  


Dwight looked up at the sound of the jail door opening, lifting his eyes from the short stack of papers on the desk. It was Vin Tanner, of course, just like it had been for the past five nights, and Dwight nodded at the tracker and let him pass. He knew what was going on, and it was all right with him.

Chris Larabee had been a model prisoner, quiet and undemanding, so Dwight had no problems with filling in for Vin and Josiah while they were helping JD get back on his feet. But it bothered him, when he saw Vin coming through the door this night as he had the five nights previously, because then Chris would get to his feet with a hopeful look in his eye, come to life like he hadn’t been alive all day, and ask Vin a one-word question: today?

Dwight knew what he was asking, hell, everybody knew what Chris wanted. When JD was walking again, Chris Larabee was a free man. And who wouldn’t want to be free after being holed up for four months? So every night when Vin walked in and Chris sparked to life, Dwight knew what the man was thinking: maybe tonight I’ll get out of here. But it had been five nights, and it hadn’t happened yet, so Dwight turned his attention back to his work as Vin walked past him, and towards the rearmost cell.

Chris was at the bars immediately, his hands loosely holding the rusting iron rods as he watched Vin walk across the maze of light and shadow toward him. Chris stared at him, his eyes glittering with nervous anxiety as he cleared his throat and asked in a voice that was small and tight with a painful mixture of hope and dread, “Today?”

There was a tiny pause; then Vin smiled, slowly, first a little and then a lot, his eyes gleaming happier and brighter until they seemed to light up the room as he gave a small nod and said, “It happened, Chris. Today.”

Chris let out a small gasp, shuddered in his whole body and seemed to Vin to collapse in on himself in joyful shock. Matthew Dwight looked up, surprised, and saw Chris smile, the first smile anyone had seen on him in four months, and for the rest of his life the deputy would swear to God he saw tears come to Larabee’s eyes as he stared into Vin Tanner’s face, every possible joy cascading from those tortured blue eyes. Then, abruptly, Chris ducked his head down low, so his long blond bangs hid his eyes. And Dwight saw him wipe his face.

Nonplused, Vin paused a little, then continued softly, “You should have seen him, pard. Last time I saw JD that hell-bent on something, we were chasin’ him out of the Indian village.”

Chris shook his head, leaned a little against the bars.

“He’s walkin’, Chris,” Vin said, slow and carefully, relishing every word. “He’s gonna be all right.”

Chris coughed, ran one hand roughly through his hair. “Thank God.”

Vin turned his head, looked at the large keyring that hung on the peg a few feet behind him. Reaching up, he took the ring in his hand and began to lift it off the hook.

Chris’ head came up, his eyes sharp and suddenly forbidding. “Not yet.”

Vin stopped, set the keyring back on the peg as he gave Chris a questioning look. “Chris, you done your time. JD’s walkin’ again. You got nothin’ left to prove.”

“No.” Chris shook his head resolutely. “You know what I said, Vin. When JD walks through that door, you let me out. Not before.”

Vin sighed, looked at the floor, golden and melancholy in the low light. “Might be months before JD comes in here. Might be a long time before he’s ready - ”

“Then I’ll wait,” Chris said stubbornly, and walked away from the bars. “Until JD pardons me, I won’t be free no matter where I go. So I might as well stay here.”

Vin brought his head back, his face pained. “Chris, you don’t have to - ”

“You heard me.” Chris’ voice was tight, getting louder but still reined in, determined. He stood next to the cot, shook his head as he looked at his friend. “Now dammit, Vin, I’m not going to argue with you.”

Vin leaned back on one leg, stared at Chris in frustration.

“You can open that door, as wide as you want,” Chris said, his blue eyes stern and set, “But I won’t walk out of it.”

For a long moment Vin stood there, gazing at Chris in a way that made him think, just for a second, that Vin was going to charge into the cell and try to drag him out. But it was just for a second; then Vin took a small step backward, tugged at his hat, and with a smile of farewell turned around, and quietly walked out of the jail, giving Dwight a slight nod as he passed and smiling at the deputy’s surprised look as he eyed the man in black, and the keyring still swinging on its rough wooden peg.

  
  


Before dawn the next morning, Josiah and Ezra saddled their horses and patrolled around the perimeter of the town, among the low bushes and rocks. It was a cool morning, but bright and clear, the promise of a gorgeous day ahead. As Josiah brought his horse to a stop on the top of a small hill, he gazed around at the quiet, unhurried landscape, the watercolor plains and the distant, violet hills beyond, and smiled in appreciation.

A moment later, Ezra rode up next to him, his own eyes scanning the horizon, but not with the same contentment, that was obvious. Giving his friend a searching look, Josiah fiddled with the reins in his hand and said, “Ezra, it’s a beautiful morning to look so sour.”

Ezra blinked, glanced at Josiah before rubbing his lip with one gloved hand. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Sanchez, I was - preoccupied.”

“So I noticed.” Josiah sighed, then took the plunge. “Chris?”

Ezra cocked his head. “Well, surely you realize that with Mr. Dunne nearly recovered, we will soon have Mr. Larabee back in our midst as well. And that is cause for concern, in my opinion.”

Josiah shook his head, his eyes on the hazy mountains. “Vin said Chris won’t come out till JD forgives him. And if JD does that, seems to me the rest of us should do the same.”

“Oh, come now,” Ezra said cynically. “Perhaps Mr. Tanner believes Mr. Larabee’s professions of guilt, but some of us have a more difficult time rolling over and accepting his tears as genuine. And I doubt Mr. Dunne will ever forgive him.”

Josiah scratched his ear. “That’s for the boy to decide, but four months of jail time sure looks like sorry to me. And bringing Mr. Thomas to take care of JD.”

Ezra opened his mouth, closed it again, then gave a small shrug. “I am still not convinced this is all not some confidence act to beguile the town. I myself have pulled such deceptions.”

“Willingly?” Josiah asked archly, tilting back in the saddle in the glowing morning light. “You turned yourself in, Ezra? You locked yourself up for four solid months, no liquor, no women, no card games? When?”

Ezra shifted in the saddle and coughed self-consciously before saying, “Well, my point could not be clearer. Once Larabee is freed, we will all have to decide whether or not to tolerate his continued presence.”

“Sounds to me like you’ve already decided,” Josiah noted, turning his eyes to the horizon to watch the first rays of the rising sun edge over the faraway hills.

Ezra scowled at the preacher. “In my instance, there was no decision to make. After the brutality of his assault on Mr. Dunne, I could never trust the man again. His lack of self-control is abhorrent to me.”

Josiah leaned forward in his saddle, eyed the rising sun appreciatively as he said, “Well, Ezra, you got a right to be upset. Wasn’t one of us who wasn’t shocked to our boots at what Chris did to that boy, including me.”

“Then how can you possibly find it in your heart to continue to associate with the man?” Ezra asked in a tone dripping with revulsion.

There was a very long pause as Josiah pondered this question, and as Ezra watched his friend the sun began to come up in earnest, washing the landscape around them in a warm, watercolor glow. The light touched Josiah’s face, turned it rosy as he scratched his chin and said softly, “Well, Ezra, it’s like this. There are times in a man’s life when all the good he knows don’t amount to a hill of beans, and he just acts on his demons cause it’s the easy thing to do. And he runs, and tries to hide and make excuses, and at that point I’d say he’s not worth five minutes of any decent man’s time.”

“Precisely,” Ezra said forcefully.

“But then there comes a time in a man’s life,” Josiah continued, straightening up in the saddle, “When that same man says to himself, I got to face my demons and whip ‘em, but more important I got to go back and see what I could do, so’s my brothers will see my soul for what it is and not for what I let it be. If a man does that, Ezra, what do you think of him then?”

Ezra’s face clouded, and he sat for a long moment and contemplated the question as the rocks and trees around them brightened with the morning sun. But then he shook his head and said, “I believe I’d still find it very difficult to trust Mr. Larabee, after what he’s done.”

Josiah cocked his head and smiled. “Interesting answer, Ezra, ‘cept I wasn’t talking about Chris. I was talking about you, when you deserted us in the Indian village.”

Ezra started and blinked.

“Now the way I look at it,” Josiah said calmly, turning in the saddle and looking his comrade full in the face, “if a man comes back and does his outright damnedest to make amends, he should get that second chance. Because maybe he ain’t the man he was. And maybe once we know the man he is, we’ll find something there that’s mighty worth respecting.”

Ezra stared at Josiah, heard the double meaning in his words but didn’t reply. Giving his comrade a gentle smile, Josiah turned his horse back down the hill and headed on, leaving Ezra there for a moment to sort through his thoughts, and watch the rising sun.

  
  


The same sun that shone on the hills surrounding Four Corners also found Buck fidgeting in the lobby of the town hotel, pacing back and forth through its rays as it shone through the dusty windows and among the genially tatty furniture. It did nothing to warm his mood, however. He was scowling, and muttering darkly as he walked.

Presently footsteps were heard echoing on the slightly warped floorboards, and Darcy appeared, pulling his jacket on and smoothing his hair. As soon as he saw Buck, Darcy gave him a genial smile and said, “Good morning, Mr. Wilmington, how are you today?”

“Um, fine,” Buck said roughly, and standing in front of Darcy he cleared his throat nervously. “Mr. Thomas, can I ask you somethin’?”

Darcy paused as he put the watch away, took a step closer and really looked at Buck’s face. “Here, I thought you were in for an early bedtime last night. Ye look like ye didn’t sleep a wink.”

“Yeah, well...” Buck hemmed.

“Are ye all right?” Darcy asked, genuinely concerned. “Ye’ve been under a terrible strain these past few months, you know.”

Buck nodded, looked at the faded carpeting under their feet.

Darcy gave Buck a scrutinizing look. “Well, I have some time before we get started with Mr. Dunne this morning. Please, sit down and tell me what’s on yer mind.”

Buck sat somewhat uncomfortably in one of the lobby’s genially fading upholstered chairs, eyeing Darcy uncertainly as the physician sat opposite him. Then he asked, “I was just wonderin’ if there was anything you could give JD for his sleepin’.”

“His sleeping?” Darcy repeated, peering at Buck. “He’s been sleeping fine, from what I’ve seen. I’d hesitate to prescribe any sleeping aids unless he’s in some kind of pain.”

Buck nodded in a way that suggested he understood, but didn’t agree. Darcy cocked his head and said, “Mr. Wilmington, is something - ”

“He’s been having nightmares again,” Buck said suddenly, with the shamed face of one divulging a secret. To Darcy’s alert expression, Buck added swiftly, “He don’t know I know. But I hear ‘em, through the walls.”

Darcy leaned back in the chair, his face as worried as Buck’s now. “Tell me more.”

Buck’s face flushed. “Like I said, he don’t know nothin’ about it, but the last week or so I wake up and hear him moanin’, like he’s hurtin’ real bad.”

“But he isn’t in pain?”

Buck shook his head. “First time I heard it, I went to check on him, he was still asleep. I went to wake him up, and he about knocked me out the window. But he didn’t remember nothin’ after he woke up, and he was feelin’ fine.”

Darcy fished out his pipe, his eyes solemn. “Ye said the first time? How many times has this happened?”

Buck’s eyes grew more anxious. “Every night for the past week, two or three times a night. I can tell when he’s havin’ one, he hollers out and - and...” Buck looked around and lowered his voice, his face hardening into a look of pure anger. “He’s been callin’ out to Chris, to stop beatin’ him. I gave up tryin’ to wake him, it don’t do no good. He goes back to sleep and it starts right back up again.”

Darcy took out his tobacco pouch, his face tense with thought. “Is there anything else?”

Buck shook his head, then quickly ducked it down and muttered, “A few times he kind of...well, he...” Buck paused, rubbed the back of his neck.

Darcy looked up from his pipe, waited for Buck to find words.

“He’s been kind of hidin’ in his sleep,” Buck finally blurted, then paused and continued, “I don’t know how else to put it. One night I checked on him, he was curled up in the corner. Another night I found him asleep in the closet. I even found him under his bed once, stone asleep and whimperin’ to break your heart.”

Darcy winced. “Ah, Jesus Christ.”

Buck turned pleading eyes to Darcy. “So I was wonderin’, could you maybe give him somethin’, like that tonic, so’s he don’t have these things no more? Maybe he can sleep through ‘em?”

Darcy found a match, struck it against his thumb and said softly, “I can give him something, Mr. Wilmington, but that won’t solve his problem. The boy’s sufferin’ in his soul, and drugging him will only cover the hurt up, not make it go away.”

“Well, can’t you do nothin?” Buck said beseechingly. “I mean, I know you already done more than I can ask for JD, but - isn’t there somethin’, maybe some kind of European thing? He’s hurtin’ awful bad.”

Darcy took a puff on his pipe, regarded Buck closely through the curling smoke. “This Mr. Dunne means a great deal to ye, doesn’t he, Mr. Wilmington?”

Buck grimaced as if caught at something, leaned back in the winged chair. “He’s an awful pain in the butt sometimes, and he don’t have two licks of common sense to rub together, but - but he don’t deserve this, Mr. Thomas. He don’t.”

Darcy’s gaze grew sympathetic and sad. “Ye’re right, Mr. Wilmington. Mr. Dunne only deserves to get well again, to ride and run and live the full life God intended. But his mind has to work out what happened to him, and he has to face the source of his fears and confront them, or they’ll haunt him for the rest of his life. ”

Buck’s face fell. “You mean there ain’t nothin’ we can do?”

“No,” Darcy said evenly. “I didn’t say that.”

Buck blinked, leaned forward again.

Darcy looked at him for a long moment, puffing on the pipe until there seemed to be a haze between him and Buck. Then he said quietly, “I’ve been here four months now, Mr. Wilmington, and I’ve seen the way ye and yer friends are around one another. I’ve seen how this whole business with Chris has divided ye, and it breaks me heart, for the tales of yer fellowship is legend where I come from.”

Buck’s frown was puzzled. “Are we still talkin’ about JD?”

“Aye,” Darcy said, with a twinge of impatience. “We are. For as much as I’ve seen yer disagreement over whether to forgive Chris drive that wedge among ye, Mr. Dunne has seen it too. The man was his hero, and he doesn’t know what to think about him now. So he follows the example you set.”

Buck began to draw himself up, his face changing from concern to confusion to anger. “Now just a - ”

“I’m not finished,” Darcy said, sharper now, his eyes glittering as he stared at Buck. “The boy looks up to ye, as if ye were blood kin. The bitterness ye carry in yer heart toward Chris, he’ll carry too, even if he doesn’t understand it. Because he’ll figure ye must know somethin’ he doesn’t.”

“Don’t you lay this on me,” Buck said defensively, his begging attitude being replaced with indignant pique. “Josiah and Nathan, they’re okay with Chris, and so is Vin.”

“But the lad didn’t latch onto them,” Darcy pointed out. “That honor went to you, and it’s an honor ye’re betrayin’ if ye poison him with yer own resentments.”

“I got every reason to resent that man,” Buck bristled, his face growing dark as his whole body tensed. “JD was just a kid, half his size, and he about beat him to death.”

“And then he ran off,” Darcy continued evenly, “and was set to put an end to himself when I came along.”

Buck looked at him, unsure how to respond, didn’t say anything.

“It was a dark road I walked with yer friend,” Darcy said, his eyes piercing Buck’s as he spoke. “And I pulled him from the fire more than once. But he did the honorable thing, he returned to this town, he set me to looking after Mr. Dunne. And he turned himself over to the law.”

“That don’t make it all right,” Buck said miserably, looking down at his folded hands.

Darcy puffed the pipe for a moment longer, regarded Buck in a melancholy way. “No, Mr. Wilmington, ye’re right, it doesn’t. I don’t know what would make it right for ye, and I’m not arrogant enough to pretend that I do. But ye came here today to tell me that Mr. Dunne has a problem, and he does. The way I see it, his problem is this: he needs to find it in his heart, somewhere, someday, to forgive Chris Larabee for the wrongs done against him, and find his own path with the stranger who’s sitting the jail, for I don’t believe they’re the same man. I don’t know where that path will go, but I know this much.”

He paused, waited until Buck raised his head and looked at him.

Darcy paused, then said softly, “He’ll not forgive Chris Larabee until you do.”

The weight of those words was visible on Buck’s face, pressed it into sickened, confused lines. For a moment Buck simply sat there, then at length he looked at Darcy with eyes that were gazing at JD four months ago, then at himself three years ago, two men broken and hurting, and the same arrogance and denial from Chris, nothing had changed. Buck felt a huge ache in his gut as he thought of all this, and finally he whispered, “I’m not sure I can do it.”

Darcy studied his pipe for a moment, then said in kind but knowing tones, “Well then, the only thing to do is to keep the boy away from ye, and hope he finds friendship with one of the others. Then he’ll follow their example, instead of yers.”

It was not said in any mean-spirited or sarcastic way, but Buck felt as if Darcy had punched him in the stomach. He swallowed hard, and didn’t move.

Darcy took a few more puffs on the pipe, then sighed and stood. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wilmington, I know it’s not the answer ye were looking for, but it’s the truth. And now if ye’ll excuse me, it’s time Mr. Dunne was beginning his day.”

With that, Darcy left the hotel lobby, but Buck sat there for a long time in that incongruous wingchair, a silent object in the busy morning traffic, and thought.

  
  


That day, and the next few that followed, found JD getting stronger and more confident with every step he took. The pace hadn’t picked up - walking was still a tortuous, slow endeavor, with every movement evident in the JD’s face as he struggled to concentrate, concentrate, to walk without falling or leaning too much on the pews for support. But the attitude was changing, and everyone saw it. With every tottering, carefully planned step, JD’s impatience to get completely well grew, until it was practically another presence in the room, and the others’ grew with it. JD wanted his life back, and now. Right now.

Finally, after running the boy through his exercises seemingly hundreds of times and teaching him the exceptionally tricky maneuver of negotiating stairs, Darcy presented JD with an elegant walking stick and announced that - if the youth thought he was really ready - he was healed enough for a short walk about the town. As long as he stayed off the uneven boardwalks, and watched that the walking stick didn’t land in any holes or puddles.

Buck, who was with JD and Darcy that morning, gave JD a huge grin and met the boy’s eyes with unabashed pride. JD was standing, unassisted. He was walking, slow and unsteady, but that would change, given time, and pretty soon he’d be ready to ride again, to balance himself in the saddle and shoot and do all those fancy tricks he’d tried so hard to impress everybody with. It was so close. The day was almost here.

JD tried the walking stick, but it was scary at first, to try walking without the friendly support of the pews on either side of him, and his friends in front and behind. Darcy instructed him on how to place his weight on it, how to lean on it like another leg, and after a while JD was comfortable enough with it that he was ready.

So, that bright warm morning, JD put on his cleaned and mended three-piece suit, carefully combed his black hair and placed his bowler hat so the scar wouldn’t show, then looked in the mirror and sighed nervously.

Buck watched all this, his arms folded and a look of fond amusement on his handsome face. “So, you about ready, son?”

“Gosh, Buck,” JD muttered as he fiddled with his collar. “I don’t know why, but I’m about scared to death.”

“You’ll be all right, kid,” Buck said as he approached the mirror and gave a firm nod. “I’ll be close, in case anything happens.”

“Not too close,” JD cautioned as he picked up the walking stick. “I ain’t no baby, and I don’t want to be treated like one.”

“Understood,” Buck said quietly, hoping JD didn’t see how overwhelmed he felt by this whole experience. That first morning, when they’d found JD bleeding and shattered in the alley, seemed like another lifetime now, but the fear and horror still haunted Buck - and JD too, but Buck was still working that out - and to see the youth they all thought would die maybe, and then would never walk again, standing in front of his bureau fussing with his suit and getting ready to step out...well, it was a goddamn miracle. There was no other word for it.

“Buck?”

Buck blinked, shook his head a little and said, “Hm?”

“Nothin’, you were just lookin’ at me funny. Is my fly open or something?”

Buck coughed, tugged at his hat distractedly. “No, kid, you’re fine. You’re just fine. Let’s get goin’.”

  
  


It was another beautiful day, perfect, in Ezra’s opinion, for lounging outside of the saloon and sizing up possible marks from the men that passed through the swinging double doors. He sat comfortably leaned back in the wooden chair, idly shuffling cards and listening to the distant sounds of Nathan and Josiah repairing the church roof down the street. Beside him, Vin sat quietly as he always did, tying a new chinstrap onto his favorite hat.

Since JD’s first faltering steps, Darcy Thomas had said the entire group’s involvement in the boy’s recovery was no longer necessary, so they had dispersed, looking for other ways to make themselves useful. But it had been a damnably peaceful day, and Ezra was bored out of his mind.

Perhaps a little fortune telling with the cards. He flipped a card over; Jack of diamonds. An outgoing, enthusiastic person - JD, obviously. Back in the pack. Shuffle, shuffle. Flipped another one. Ace of spades. Smiled a bit - his signature card. Back in the pack. Shuffle. Drew out another. Six of spades.

Their group?

Not seven; probably never be seven, not ever again.

Ezra sighed and studied the card a moment, considered Josiah’s words of a few mornings ago. He frowned, not liking the way the preacher had turned his words against him, had dared to compare Chris’ act of brutality to his act of...what had Josiah called it? Desertion? Perhaps, but Chris had almost killed JD, and Ezra knew he wasn’t as bad because his act hadn’t resulted in any...

Ezra paused, backtracked a bit. Well, admittedly his fleeing in the face of that Confederate cannon had resulted in some...loss of life. And, true, the others did end up shackled in front of that same cannon and would have been executed, but... but that still did not put him in Mr. Larabee’s deplorable class because at least Ezra was not drunk when he committed his sin. Chris had been, horribly, menacingly drunk, completely out of control, letting his vices rule his actions. I would never do that, Ezra sniffed to himself, never put others in danger through my own weaknesses -

\- _greed_ -

The word flitted through Ezra’s brain so quickly he blinked, thought perhaps Vin had said the word, though he knew that was unlikely. Then he brought the word back, laid it out and studied it as he stared dumbly at the card in his hand.

Greed? Well, all right, it was a strong word, but Ezra had to admit that when he heard that there was a gold mine near the village he had been...temporarily...blinded by the prospects of an easy fortune, but...but after all, he’d gone back, hadn’t he? Saved all of them, you’d think Josiah would be grateful, and not bring the subject up. It was simply rude. Even if Ezra did admit that what he’d done caused a lot of suffering and could have destroyed the village...and he almost had to...well, he’d made his amends, hadn’t he? And it couldn’t have been that bad, they did let him back in. Not too kindly, of course - Ezra shuddered, remembering Chris’ steely gaze, his low growl, Don’t ever run out on me again. And Ezra had been struck speechless, not only by those ice-blue eyes that drilled into his guilty soul but at the fact that Chris hadn’t just pulled out his gun and shot him. No, what Ezra did couldn’t have been that bad, because Chris let him back in.

\- Chris let him back in.

Chris.

Suddenly the parallel between their courses became so apparent that Ezra almost gasped, and his eyes shot to the jail. Chris had forgiven him, given him a second chance.

No. No, I can’t, can’t give that man the satisfaction of my pardon after what he did. He’s a brute, a cretin, an out-of-control beast-

You turned yourself in, Ezra? You locked yourself up for four solid months, no liquor, no women, no card games? When?

Ezra grimaced against the knowledge that was gnawing at his brain, paining him. Chris was a drunken lout who -

\- who still was punishing himself for what he’d done, far more than he’d ever punished Ezra for his crime. And who had given Ezra a second chance. Which Ezra had taken, and never given back.

Greed.

Ezra blinked at the card he held, slipped it back in the pack slowly, as if it would awaken and bite him. Forgive Chris? Forget the broken face, the cruel injuries, the destruction of the town? Just...let it go? Move on?

Could he?

Ezra set the cards low on his lap, began to shuffle them again. He felt unsettled, odd, was unsure what the cards were telling him, but he believed in their power, had believed in it all his life. Show me something unmistakable, dammit, he thought, cutting the cards and shoving them together angrily. Show me something I don’t have to think about. Pulled out another -

Suddenly somebody punched Ezra’s arm, hard enough for him to wince and drop the card he’d just pulled out. Ezra glanced up, saw Vin withdrawing a hastily made fist. He sighed tensely and snapped, “Mr. Tanner, do you mind - ”

“Hush, Ezra,” Vin said in amazed tones, and pointed. “Look.”

Ezra looked. And very quickly got to his feet.

The morning sun in the street revealed two people walking down its dusty length, slowly. One of them was Buck, strolling in a casual way that seemed the most wound-up casual Ezra had ever seen. And the other -

JD’s walk was unsteady, limping even. He had a walking stick, but was looking down every time he used it, carefully pausing and placing it before he took another hesitant step. And the gait was slow, deliberate and slow, like an old man’s, but there was a determination to his wavering stride, a deathless resolve inherent in it that would have betrayed the youth’s identity to Ezra if he’d had a bag over his head. The stick came down, and JD looked up, glanced at Buck and then saw Ezra and Vin across the street, and gave them a triumphant grin full of hope and vitality.

Vin made a small noise, something between a hiccough and a laugh, and whispered, “Now there’s a sight I been waitin’ to see for a long time.”

Ezra nodded mutely, had no words. He walked to the front of the porch, looked over to see if Josiah and Nathan were seeing this wonderful sight. Both men were sitting up on the roof, tools in hand, but their postures told the gambler what he wanted to know. They saw.

  
  


Out in the street, JD glanced around, saw the curious looks on the townspeople around him.

“They’re all staring at me, Buck,” he muttered, looking down to make sure he wasn’t putting the walking stick into a hole or something. Step, carefully now...

“I know, JD,” Buck answered, trying to look and not look at JD at the same time. “Don’t give it no mind. They’re just happy to see you is all.”

“Well, I wish they’d stop,” JD groused quietly. “I keep thinking I should check my fly.”

Buck laughed, a happy laugh in the warm sunshine, him and JD walking together down the streets of Four Corners, just like old times. Well, almost. But - getting there. “Where do you want to go?”

“Let’s go see Mrs. Travis,” JD suggested. “It ain’t far, and I want to see if she can make us another one of those pies. The last one was great.”

“You got it,” Buck replied happily, then said, “Hey, there’s Josiah and Nathan, up there on the church roof. See ‘em?”

JD looked up, squinted into the bright sky. “Yeah, I see ‘em.” And he waved, then looked down and shook his head. “Dammit, I feel like some slow, stupid turtle. I want to go faster.”

“You will, son,” Buck assured him, putting his hands behind him and greeting the curious stares with a cheerful smile and a steely-eyed suggestion to look elsewhere. “Just takes practice, but you’re doin’ fine. Keep it up.”

JD nodded in a half-there kind of way, and Buck could tell he was far too intent on his walking to listen to his friend’s prattling. So Buck kept silent, and tried to keep his distance.

As they made their way down the dusty street, Buck looked up and saw a woman coming toward them. When she saw JD, she tilted her head, then brought it back as if shocked. It took Buck a moment to place her, but as she came forward he recognized her as the owner of the general store he and Nathan had been in, the afternoon before Vin’s arrest. He remembered she didn’t seem to like him much, and tensed as she reached them, and JD looked up.

“Well, good afternoon, Mr. Dunne,” the woman said, with an overly-bright smile. “And how are you today?”

Her voice had a singsong aspect to it, as if she was talking to a child. JD gave her a quizzical look and said, “Fine, ma’am, thank you.”

“Oh, that’s splendid,” the woman replied, glancing at Buck with disdainful eyes before turning them back to JD. “Now you know, we’ve all just been hoping you’d get all better. Are you all better?”

“Uh - yeah, I guess,” JD responded uncertainly, glancing down at his cane self-consciously. “I mean, I’m getting there.”

“Good for you,” the woman simpered, and reached out and put a hand on JD’s arm. “You’re so brave, after the terrible thing that happened to you, and now you’ve got that limp. Some people are just so mean, but you know it wasn’t your fault, don’t you? Sometimes bad things just happen.”

Buck bristled at the way this woman was treating JD, like he was an idiot. He knew the kid didn’t want him fighting his battles, but Jesus -

JD shook his head a little, to get the hair out of his eyes and said, “Um, ma’am?”

The woman’s smile grew even more patronizing, if that were possible. “Yes, JD sweetie, what is it?”

JD tilted his head and looked at her. “Are you okay? You’re talkin’ like somebody hit you in the head.”

Buck laughed; he couldn’t help it even though it was very rude and certainly didn’t win him any favor with the woman from the general store. She snapped her hand back, blinked for a second, then, giving Buck a stabbing glare, threw one last half-hearted smile at JD before picking up her skirt and walking away.

JD watched her go, shook his head. “Geez, Buck, that was that one lady from the general store, wasn’t it? What was her problem?”

“Dunno, kid,” Buck chuckled. “But I think you took care of it.”

JD sighed, rolled his shoulders and shook his black bangs out of his eyes, and they walked on. His steps were getting a little more fluid, Buck noticed as they walked together, a little easier, wouldn’t be any time at all -

JD stopped.

Buck slowed down too, then stopped and looked at his young friend. JD was staring anxiously ahead of them, his lips pursed as if he was thinking very hard. Buck followed his gaze, then thought, of course.

The jail.

Buck heard JD gulp, stroked his moustache and said, “Uh, JD, you okay? Cause we can - ”

“No, I’m okay, Buck,” the youth replied, but he was looking at the jail door in an odd way that took Buck a moment to place. It wasn’t so much an emotion as a set of them, all rolled together, fear and regret and a bitter resentment that looked out of place on one so young.

JD coughed, reached up and pulled his bowler hat down. “Come on.” He said, and continued to make his stuttering way down the street.

Buck scowled as he accompanied JD past the jail, walking so he was between the boy and the jailhouse door. Damn. Damn, that Darcy fellow is right. JD’s stuck with this, he ain’t gonna forget, but what the hell can I do? I can’t forget either. Naw, never mind. That doctor can’t be right about everything. Just gonna take time, that’s all. I hope...

  
  


Ezra and Vin watched the scene unfold from their seats in front of the saloon. They both held their breath when JD stopped outside the jail, but when the youth walked on Vin shook his head and backed up, toward the deep shade of the low-slung porch.

“Let’s not stare,” Vin said to Ezra, still in low tones. “We’ll make him self-conscious.”

Ezra cleared his throat and sat down, risking one more glance at Buck and JD as they worked their laborious way down the street. It felt gratifying, having the boy among them again, even if he was as yet not completely well. It made Ezra’s heart feel curiously lighter, seeing JD in the sunlight again, walking. Moving. Moving on...

“You dropped one of your cards,” Vin pointed out as he leaned his back against the saloon wall and went back to lacing his chinstrap.

Ezra glanced over at Vin, then down at the dirty wooden planks. There it was, face down, the playing card he’d drawn when Vin punched his arm.

“My thanks, Mr. Tanner,” Ezra said, bending down with a grunt to retrieve the card. “Of course, I had already felt that the deck was a card lighter than it - ”

Ezra stopped talking, eyed the dropped card in his hand for a moment. He knew Vin was looking at him in curiousity, wondering why he’d halted in mid-sentence. Ezra looked up, saw Vin’s questioning eyes and gave a shrug, tucked the card back in the pack and leaned his chair against the wall, as if nothing mattered to him in the world at that moment. But something mattered. That card did, the one he’d just picked up, it mattered to him a great deal, because he’d drawn it as a card of fortune, asked it for an unmistakable sign. And the cards had answered him.

It was the seven of spades.

  
  


Inside the jail, Chris sat up on his cot and noticed the deputy, Matthew Dwight, standing at the grimy front window and staring out of it curiously, craning his head to see down the street. Frowning, Chris stood, cocked his head as he approached the rusting iron bars and lazily wrapped his hands around them. What -

At that moment the jailhouse door opened, and Ezra walked in.

Dwight just stared at him, glancing up and down to make sure the gambler didn’t have a gun. Ezra ignored him, stared at Chris with eyes that were wide with - something. Chris almost flinched under their intensity, and turned away from the bars to sit back down on his cot, felt a deep fear inside. He knew Ezra hated him. He supposed he was about to find out how much.

Chris heard Ezra’s footsteps approaching the cell, even, deliberate. He kept his eyes on the floor as he heard Ezra take a deep breath. There was a slight pause, then Ezra said, “Mr. Larabee, you will do me the kindness of facing me, please.”

Chris winced visibly, knew there was no escaping Ezra’s anger now. He turned, slowly, looked up at Ezra and waited.

Ezra’s eyes were burning with emotion as he said,”What you did to that boy was wretched and inexcusable. And there is a part of me that I suspect will forever condemn and hate you for it.”

Chris’ heart sank; he knew he deserved every spite-filled word, knew also that he was witnessing the passions Ezra kept so neatly tucked away. Witnessing, and being engulfed by them.

“You may wonder, Mr. Larabee,” Ezra continued, and as Chris looked at the gambler’s face he saw a tremendous struggle going on, for what he wasn’t sure, “How it is that I can even bring myself to speak to you.”

Chris tensed.   
Ezra shook his head a little bit. “Even I cannot answer that question. What you did is abhorrent to me, yet I cannot in good conscience condemn you eternally because of it. Because ... I have done the same.”

Chris’ eyebrows went up, and he opened his mouth to protest.

Ezra cut him off. “Believe me, it is no small comfort to discover that I am as loathsome a personage as you were when you attacked Mr. Dunne. But upon examination, I cannot find a defense against what I did that day six months past, when I ran out on you, that does not ring hollow and false. I am left with the unsettling certainty that we are more alike than different, after all, with one exception. Until this moment.”

Chris blinked, looked at Ezra and tried to decipher what he was saying.

“When I deserted you,” Ezra continued, his face growing crimson with effort, “I placed you and the others in mortal danger, and yet you forgave me, even though part of you did - and I suspect still does - harbor a great deal of resentment towards my actions. So I now find myself in the same position, and in order to not bring shame to my mother and my name, I know I must do the same. And...” He swallowed, and his lips wavered for an instant, recovered. “Forgive you.”

Chris drew in a long breath, let it back out again. Ezra was forgiving him. He felt as if a band had been let loose from his heart, one that had been choking it painfully. He looked at Ezra, saw a little confusion and fear in those carefully masked eyes, and wondered if the gambler knew what it meant to him, to have that forgiveness. Maybe he did. Chris figured he’d never know.

“I must confess,” Ezra said with a sigh, looking down at his hands, “that I am unsure how the rest of our time will go, whether Mr. Wilmington, and of course Mr. Dunne himself, will deal with this whole affair...”

Chris folded his hands, leaned forward on the cot and shrugged in despair. “I’ve done my best. All I can do.”

“That you have, Mr. Larabee,” Ezra said with a note of admiration in his voice. “And if you had been on the street a few minutes ago, you would have seen the fruits of your labors. Mr. Dunne was walking down them with only a cane for assistance.”

Chris looked up, startled. He stood up quickly, approached the bars and looked at Ezra hopefully. “He was? Was he - was anybody with him?”

“Mr. Wilmington, as always,” Ezra replied with a small smile, then said, “You see, Mr. Larabee, when I have been witness to miracles such as the one I’ve seen today, making amends with you seems a small price to pay for the hope that we shall all find ourselves riding together again. And if you can put up with the likes of me - ”

Chris gave him a look, which Ezra knowingly returned. And added a smile wide enough to show his gold tooth.

“Then surely the miracles are not ended yet.”


	20. Chapter 20

That night JD made it to the saloon for the first time in four months, determined despite an overwhelming lethargy to make the most of his hard-won freedom. The other patrons stared at him as he came in, for a moment; then Buck swept the room with a glint that dared them to continue making his friend uncomfortable, and the curious drunks suddenly found their whiskey bottles endlessly fascinating. And stopped staring.

The game was lively and, for JD, short lived. For as much as he enjoyed being among his friends again, as happy and satisfied as Darcy Thomas seemed as he toasted the youth’s health with a bottle of fine Irish whiskey - one of only two in the whole saloon! - and as much as he wanted to stay up all night and get back into the poker game, he was just too tired. So, after he’d nearly fallen asleep waiting for Nathan to decide whether to fold or call, Buck made the strong suggestion that it was time for JD to get some shut-eye, and Darcy agreed. JD was outnumbered, so wisely allowed Buck to help him out of the saloon and back up to his room. Ten minutes later he was in bed and asleep.

Buck returned to the saloon, trying to convince himself the entire way back that things would change, now that JD was walking. Those nightmares he had been having would surely go away, now that he could see Chris whenever he wanted. Hell, the last couple of nights JD hadn’t made a noise, and Buck wrapped himself in that soothing thought as he put on his best let’s-get-down-to-business grin and kissed the pretty new barmaid before sitting back down to the game. JD was fine, and Buck didn’t have to worry about forgiving Chris before he was damn good and ready. What did Darcy Thomas know, anyway?

  
  


The game ended four hours later, and Buck checked his pocket watch as he slowly climbed the stairs to his room, yawning and wincing at his sore muscles. Two o’clock; damn, he used to be able to go all night. Must be gettin’ old...

His room was dark and quiet, and Buck fumbled a bit before turning on the light and starting to get undressed. He was tired enough to consider just flopping into bed with his clothes on, and was just about to turn off the light and do so when he heard something that made his stomach clench in dismay.

A whimper. Then another one. Muffled and low, through the walls.

Oh, no. Buck turned toward the source of the sound. JD, it had to be. Another nightmare? Buck’s shoulders sagged, and he sighed as he buttoned his shirt back up and wondered what to do. Damn, he ain’t better after all. Well, that Darcy still don’t know everything. I’ll talk to Nathan tomorrow, that’s what I’ll do. He’ll give JD somethin’ so he’ll sleep through the night.

There was another whimper, followed by a soft banging noise. Buck frowned. Did the kid put himself in the closet again? Better check this out..softly opening the door to his room, Buck stuck his head out into the hallway, then padded over to JD’s door and gently opened it, and went inside.

It was dark in the room, so Buck felt around for a moment, found a box of matches and the oil lamp that set on the table by the door, and lit it, keeping the flame low. The room was as still as a tomb. Buck’s eyes scanned the bed, but JD wasn’t in it. The closet. Or under the bed maybe. Then he heard the noise again - a whimper, confused and terrified, like a small animal caught in a trap. His eyes shot to where he’d heard the sound, and against his will Buck let out a tiny moan.

Under the desk. JD was in the small legspace under his desk, his cotton longjohns shining ghostly white in the dim room. He was half-sitting, half-laying in that tiny space, his legs drawn up, his face buried in his arms, just like he had been in Nathan’s room that awful night, when he’d crawled under his desk hysterical and in terrific pain. And whimpering, just as he was now. Except JD was fast asleep.

Buck stood there a long moment, unsure what to do. Then JD made another small noise, and Buck stopped thinking, and hurriedly went over to the desk, got down on the floor, and took a closer look.

JD was trembling, hugging himself as if in some kind of shock. He muttered broken words, half-formed and unintelligible, and in the glowing light Buck saw the scar, vividly etched in the fair skin that lay exposed as JD’s head fell forward and his black hair fell in all directions. An awful thrill ran through the gunslinger as he witnessed JD’s nightmare. God damn it, how much is this boy going to have to go through? JD moaned again, and instinctively Buck reached out and touched him lightly on the arm, one thought racing through his mind, enough. Enough -

JD didn’t wake up. Instead, he flinched away from Buck’s touch, pressed himself deeper into the small space, and it was so much like that first night that Buck felt a terrible burning in his gut, an awareness that this wasn’t going to end without him having to do something that would really hurt, but Christ, wake up, JD. Don’t run from me, dammit, I’m trying to help you. I’m trying -

...He needs to forgive Chris. And he’ll not do it before you do...

Darcy’s words stabbed Buck, injured him as he sat there in the dim light, trying to think of something to do. Forgive Chris? Impossible, Chris was the one that did this to JD. Chris was responsible for the boy walking in his sleep, hiding and crying like his heart was breaking. Chris hurt JD, and for that he should never be forgiven.

...I don’t know what it would take to make things right with ye...

Buck sniffed a little, looked at JD’s troubled face twitching in the half-darkness. Suppose talking to Chris would help solve JD’s problem. Does it have to be right with me? I could say the words, don’t have to mean ‘em. Maybe...something. I gotta do something. And maybe I’ve learned enough from Ezra to make a show, without meaning it. Don’t matter anyway, Chris and me is through, but JD - this has got to stop. I’m sick of it. I’ll go see Chris tonight.

He looked back under the desk. JD had stopped whimpering, and had laid his head against the rough wooden side of the legspace, his face more relaxed and calm. _Maybe he’s past his nightmare._ Buck watched closely as JD breathed, deep, even breaths that showed no hint of fright or trouble. Buck wavered, wondered whether to wake JD before he left. Then JD shifted in the cramped space, sighed and muttered a few words in his sleep, but not in fright or pain. Buck caught one of the words, and in spite of his frayed nerves gave a small smile. Then JD said it again, small and low: “...mama...”

Okay, I don’t understand it. But at least I know he’s in good hands till I get back. Shifting himself forward a bit, the gunslinger whispered, “You just stay where you’re comfortable, kid. I’ll be right back.”

JD almost nodded. But that was silly. He did smile a bit in his sleep, though, and that gave Buck some peace as he stood up, squared his shoulders against the greatest bit of chicanery he was ever about to pull off, and quietly left the room, dimming the lamp to blackness on his way out the door.

  
  


The jail was almost dark, as Buck expected it would be. As he made his way to the front door, Buck looked in through the grimy window and saw Josiah slumbering in the big chair, his feet propped up on the desk. He reached out for the doorknob, stopped, took a deep breath.

You’re doin’ it for JD, Buck reminded himself. You don’t have to mean it, just do it. Get it over with, so’s the boy gets some peace. All right.

The handle of the door had never felt colder in Buck’s grasp, had never turned so reluctantly or loudly. He pushed it open as if it was made of iron, winced at the horrible screeching noise the rusty hinges made. Except, funny - Josiah barely looked up, as if the hinges weren’t that loud to him at all. Funny.

“Evenin’, Buck,” Josiah said quietly, and if he was surprised he didn’t show it.

Buck nodded, stuffed his hands in his pants pockets to hide his nervousness, cleared his throat. “Evenin’, Josiah. Wondered if I - if I could talk to Chris.”

Josiah nodded, stretched and stood. “I’ll be outside if you need me,” he said, and slid out from behind the desk and, before Buck knew it, was outside and sitting on one of the barrels. He was alone with Chris.

Buck stood there for a second, confused. Jesus, what was he gonna say? A thousand thoughts went through his mind, but nothing stuck. Shit, maybe this was a bad idea. Naw, it was definitely a bad idea. Is Josiah still out there - ?

“Buck?”

The gunslinger started. He hadn’t yet looked over to see that Chris had woken up. He dropped his gaze, waiting for the surge of anger and fear he’d just experienced to die down a little before he went to talk to his onetime friend. Chris sure didn’t sound like himself, he sounded - hollow, like an empty room. Buck scratched his head, stared at the front of the sheriff’s desk. The hell with it. Let’s get it over with.

Buck walked the seemingly endless distance to Chris’ cell, heard the squeaks of the cot’s frame as Chris moved on it. Finally, calling on every ounce of self-control he had, Buck glanced up at Chris, just for a moment. He was sitting on the cot, in black like always, and his eyes searched Buck’s in bleary confusion.

Like they did that morning, Buck remembered. Before he got all mad, and denied everything, and said JD deserved it.

Go on, say something. Then get the hell out of here. Buck cleared his throat. “Hey, there, Chris, I - I was just settin’ up in my room, and nothin’ was goin’ on, thought I’d drop down here and see how...”

No, that wasn’t right, dammit. Buck paused, frustrated. That sounded completely stupid and wrong, but oh well, it was out now. Just finish it.

Buck sighed roughly, hating this, hating Chris, hating everything. Why the hell was life so hard? “I - thought you should know, you know, that I ain’t got - that there ain’t - ”

Damn it! He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say he didn’t have hard feelings, because he did. Couldn’t say there wasn’t any bad blood between them, because there was. Buck was amazed that he was such a lousy liar. How did Ezra make it look so easy?

Okay, one more time, and then that’s it. That’s it and I’m seeing Nathan in the morning so he can give something to JD, and screw this shit. Buck took a deep breath, one more try -

“Buck, I’m sorry.”

Buck stopped, blinked. He hadn’t expected Chris to say anything, kind of hoped he wouldn’t. But that was his voice just now, wasn’t it? But that wasn’t Chris, it was this low, quiet voice with so much - Buck didn’t even know what was in it, but it was different. He looked at Chris in shock.

Jesus, he’s lost weight. And look at his eyes. What - what -

As he stared, Chris stood up and approached the bars, his eyes never wavering from Buck’s. Buck was amazed at how sallow and haunted that face was, as bad as when Sarah and Adam died. But there was a light there too, and for some reason Buck wanted to turn away from it, because it was completely outside his understanding. It was not what he expected at all.

But he didn’t turn away, and so was more stunned when Chris looked him square in the eye and said in quiet, measured tones, “I’ve been sitting in here four months thinking about what I’d say to you.” Chris paused then, ducked his head down and swallowed hard before looking up and continuing. “I’m sorry I hurt JD. You were right to hate me after what I said to you about it being JD’s fault. You were right, and I didn’t listen. I’m sorry.”

Naw, this wasn’t Chris. Chris was never this contrite, never - but - Buck had no idea how to respond, so he just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Chris, I - ”

“No, let me finish,” Chris said quickly, still holding Buck with that vehement gaze, his face full of urgency, his voice tinged with tears. “Please. I’m sorry I pushed you away after Sarah and Adam died. I’m sorry I beat on you when you were only trying to help me.”

Buck’s jaw dropped, and he felt numb all over.

“I was an idiot,” Chris said softly, and Buck noticed he was trembling with emotion, as if something buried deep inside him was only now getting out. “You tried to bring me back after the fire, tried to make things all right for me, and I punished you for it. A true friend never would have done that. If you never forgave me you’d have every right, but just so’s you know... I wish I was JD right now. Because he’s got the truest friend a man could ever have.”

Buck closed his mouth, felt himself shaking almost as bad as Chris. He’d never expected sorry, never thought to look into those blue eyes and see anything but bitterness and a soul that had been dead for three years, but - but - there was sorry there. Not show sorry; real sorry, and for things Buck had decided would stay wounded inside himself forever. Damn it if that Darcy wasn’t right all along. This definitely wasn’t the same Chris that left. And Buck stood there, flabbergasted.

Chris stared at Buck for a long moment, then dropped his gaze to the floor and turned away.

Buck gazed after him, still too dumbstruck to form words. Finally he let out an exasperated sigh and said, “Dammit, Chris.”

Chris turned back, his drawn face puzzled.

Buck blinked and shook his head. “Dammit, here I am all set to hate you, and you go and pull this on me. That just ain’ t fair.”

Chris walked back up to the bars, the faintest smile on his face.

“And - and look at you,” Buck continued in a husky voice, putting his hands on his hips. “You look like one of them scarecrows on your daddy’s farm. The food here that bad?”

Chris gave a tiny nod. “It’s pretty bad.”

“Well, shit,” Buck said with a sniff, feeling his face flush with some emotion - he wasn’t sure which, there was a whole jumble of them in there. “Shit, Chris, you didn’t have to starve yourself. That ain’t - ”

The smile remained, but the eyes went somber. “Buck.”

Buck stopped, looked at Chris, his expression one of tremulous confusion.

“I’m gonna be all right,” Chris said in low, even tones. “Don’t worry about me. Just take care of JD.”

Buck felt a rush of indignation, brought his head back. “Oh, like I can’t handle both at the same time. Like I ain’t been doing that practically since the beginning.”

Chris nodded as he gazed at Buck - gazed in an odd way, like he’d only just discovered him standing there. Chris smiled again, that little half-smile Buck knew like the back of his hand, and said softly, “You do pretty good, Buck. Thanks.”

“Oh, never mind,” Buck said gruffly, bewilderment still in his voice but being layered over now with gruff embarrassment. “Just - just stop it Chris, now I got to go, but in the mornin’ I’ll have a talk with that old cook at the restaurant, see if we can get you so’s you don’t disappear when you turn sideways, okay?”

The smile widened a little, the eyes relaxed and turned soft and fond. “Okay, Buck.”

Buck nodded, more vigorously than he needed to, and began backing away from the cell. “All right, then.” He paused, didn’t know how to leave it, finally shrugged and tugged on his hat, nodded to Chris.

Chris nodded, his expression tired but happy. Buck turned then, slow and steady, and walked out, almost bumping into Josiah on the way off the porch.

The preacher eyed Buck, looked back through the smudged window into the jail. “Didn’t kill him, I hope?”

“Huh? Naw,” Buck said in a raspy voice, stroking his moustache and wandering to the edge of the porch. He stood there a moment, looking up at the sky and leaning against one of the narrow posts.

Josiah stood up, noticed Buck’s pensive stance. “You all right?”

“Damnedest thing, Josiah,” Buck muttered, putting one hand on his hip and shaking his head as he looked at the ground. He paused, then said it again, “It’s the damnedest thing.”

He didn’t say anything else, and Josiah didn’t ask; somehow, he didn’t have to. After a moment, Buck stepped off the porch and went down the street, back toward the boarding house.

Josiah watched him go, felt the air around him soften and regain its familiar texture in the man’s wake. He smiled softly to himself, thought, another demon gone. And went back inside.

  
  


JD awoke early the next day, a little sore but otherwise refreshed. He didn’t tell Buck, but he’d had this funny dream - well, it started out as a nightmare, but his mother came and that made it better; then Buck showed up, and for some reason JD remembered being stuck under his desk, and Buck coming over and getting him back to bed. It was so real that JD would have sworn it actually happened. But, of course, that wasn’t true; it was just a dream.

_I’m going for another walk today_ , JD remembered his travels of the day before, and suddenly couldn’t wait to get outside again. He stretched, grimacing as his muscles protested, and slowly, carefully, put his feet on the floor and stood up.

Walking was still a big pain. He could do it, but he hated having to go so slow, and using the walking stick, even though Buck pointed out that now he looked even more like his idol, Bat Masterson. It wouldn’t be for long, Darcy promised, but it never hurts to have a little help, so JD used the walking stick, but not all the time. For instance, not right now.

JD walked haltingly to where his clothes were slung on the floor, bent over - very slowly - and picked them up, started to get dressed. As he did so he had flashes of memory, as he often did now, brief glimpses where he remembered doing this before, before this had all happened. Getting up, getting dressed, it had all been different before, he could do it without thinking. Now he had to think about everything, had to be careful, he was still wobbly sometimes. JD frowned as he buttoned up his shirt, looked up and caught himself in the mirror. And paused, leaned in, looked closer, curious at how he looked now. He didn’t really know.

Well, he - he looked fine. JD peered closer, tilted his head around to get a better look. His hair had gotten very long, too long almost, and JD heard his mother’s voice telling him to get it cut before he started bumping into things. JD sighed and raked one hand through his black locks, trying to straighten it at least enough to be seen in public. Then he caught sight of his scar, and stopped.

He’d never really taken a good look at that scar. The morning sun shining into his room was bright, more than adequate, and JD leaned forward and with the same hand pulled his hair away and really looked at that scar, the only physical reminder that there had ever been anything wrong with him.

It was small and neat, a silent testament to Nathan’s skills. The angry red had faded to a dull pink, then to a thick white, a slightly jagged line that began at the top of his forehead, just over the outside edge of his left eye, and continued back about an inch and a half. It wasn’t noticeable, really, unless you were looking for it, or unless, like now, his hair was flopping in a certain direction, and parted there...

JD peered at the scar, ran his finger over it, fascinated, felt his heartbeat quicken a little. That night, that week, was little more than a jumble of hazy memories, pain and confusion and soul-throttling fear. He still had nightmares about it, but hadn’t told anybody because, well, what would they have said? He was a man now, one of them, and men didn’t have nightmares, didn’t run screaming to their mamas when the night terrors came...

Did they?

There was a knock at the door, and JD located his vest, staggered toward it and said, “Yeah?”

The door opened, and Buck poked his head in. “Oh, hey, kid. You’re up, huh?”

“Hi, Buck,” JD answered, scooping his vest up off the floor. “You wanna go to breakfast or something?”

“Yeah, sure, in a minute,” Buck muttered in a preoccupied way, coming into the room and sitting on the bed. He looked at JD for a moment, but wasn’t saying anything.

JD slipped his vest on, noticed Buck looking at him in the mirror. “What is it? You’re not gonna get on me about not using my walking stick.”

“No,” Buck said thoughtfully, shaking his head. “No, that’s fine, whatever you want to do about that is fine.”

JD glanced down, lined up the vest buttons and began to fasten them. “Well then, what? You’re makin’ me nervous, Buck.”

Buck took a breath, took off his hat. “JD, what do you think about Chris?”

JD’s head shot up, the nightmare images flashing through his mind, and the awful morning when he’d very nearly put a bullet in Chris’ brain; but he masked the fear he felt as his hazel eyes sought Buck’s. “Huh?”

“Chris. You ever - think on him much?”

JD tried to act nonchalant, shrugged and frowned as he realized he’d just buttoned his vest wrong, looked down to correct his mistake. “Well...yeah, I mean, I guess, sometimes. Why?”

“Well, I was just wonderin’ how you felt about him bein’ back, and you know...everything.”

JD finished buttoning his vest, gave Buck a curious look. “Well, I ain’t gonna try to kill him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Buck was about to say something, then stopped. Just what the hell was he asking?

JD looked into the mirror, began running his fingers through his hair again. “I don’t know, I guess I’m glad he came back, he saved the town. And he brought Darcy Thomas here, and...and other stuff, I guess.”

Buck nodded in agreement.

JD seemed satisfied with his hair, turned around and leaned against the bureau. “But I guess - I mean...well, you remember when I couldn’t remember much, and I thought Chris had gone after the man who beat me up?”

“Sure,” Buck responded, that quiet night coming back to his mind, JD in bed still, bandaged and stitched up, with that huge, awful bruise on his face.

“Well...” JD looked down. “I couldn’t believe that Chris would go after somebody who hurt me, cause he hardly knew who I was. I - I thought it was really something, that he’d go out of his way for me, that he thought I mattered, because he was my hero. And then I found out...I remembered...”

Buck looked down at the rumpled bed, swallowed, knew what JD was saying and hated it.

JD paused, took a couple of large breaths, then said quietly, “I want to look up to him again, and I can’t, Buck. I just can’t anymore.”

Buck eyed his young friend sadly, but there was nothing he could say.

JD noticed his look, said, “How do you feel about Chris?”

Buck coughed, shrugged, thought, here we go. “Talked to him last night.”

“You did?” JD sounded surprised. “What’d he say?”

“That he was sorry.” Buck’s voice softened as he spoke, “That he wished the whole thing had never happened.”

“I do too,” JD muttered, tugging at the front of his vest distractedly. He brushed some imaginary lint off, then said, “Hey, Buck?”

Buck sniffed. “Yeah?”

“You think when Chris gets out he’ll want...that the judge will let him ride with us again?”

Buck tilted his head. Funny how that thought would have made him see red just a day ago. “Well, the judge kind of left it up to us, whether to let Chris back in. We don’t have to. Actually, JD...it’s kind of up to you.”

JD looked up, a little unsettled. “Me?”

Buck nodded. “We all got our grievances against Chris, but you got it worst of all. So I reckon it’s your say-so, and won’t nobody hold it against you.”

JD stared at the floor a moment, his eyes big and lost. Then he shrugged and stammered, “I - I don’t know, Buck, I want things the way they used to be. I want it more than anything, but...but I don’t respect Chris any more. I don’t...I don’t like him.”

Buck drew in his breath, nodded and stood up. “All right, JD. That’s your right. I don’t think Chris will put up a fuss.”

“I - I’m sorry, Buck,” JD stuttered as his friend walked toward the door. “I - I could try to get past it I guess, like the rest of you did, it’s just - ”

“Now stop it,” Buck said firmly, swiftly coming to JD’s side and placing a hand on his shoulder. Those eyes still looked so hurt, even after four months. “Now you ain’t got nothing to be sorry for, that’s for Chris. I’d no sooner put you around a man you was scared of than I would throw you into a pit full of rattlers, and the others’d say the same. Believe that, JD. You got no sorrys to say.”

“I’m not scared of Chris,” JD mumbled, looking at the floor, but it was a flimsy lie, and he knew it.

Buck saw the halfhearted bravado, heard the struggling attempt at confidence battling against the nightmares, and his heart hurt as he patted JD’s shoulder and said, “Well, if you was, son, that’d be all right. The man scared the hell out me too.”

JD looked up at the sincere tones in that statement, perplexed and surprised.

“Now,” Buck said brightly, clearing his throat. “Before we get some grub, Mr. Thomas said he wanted to talk to you ‘bout something. You up to it?”

“Uh - sure,” JD said, looking around and picking his jacket up off the floor. He gave it a dusty shake, and smiled at Buck as the gunslinger headed for the door.

“You’re gonna make some woman miserable if you don’t get hangers figured out,” Buck called from the hallway.

JD laughed and picked up his bowler hat, checked his reflection in the mirror. Everything looked fine, just as it had, except for...his hand wandered up, touched the scar one more time and thought about how badly he wanted it to go away. But it wouldn’t, of course. So he put his bowler hat over the scar, and headed out the door.

  
  


The morning street was bright and warm, and JD smiled at it as he made his careful way down the stairs.

“Nice mornin’, eh kid?” Buck said in a cheerful voice as he walked at the boy’s side.

“Sure is,” JD agreed, thinking it odd that Darcy hadn’t come to his room if he wanted to talk to him. Would have been a lot easier than making him negotiate these damn stairs. “What’s Mr. Thomas want to see me about?”

Buck shrugged hugely, and as they hit the bottom of the stairs the gunslinger hopped down the last two, turned around to face JD with a big, silly grin on his face.

JD stood on the last step, looked at his friend in irritation. “Come on, Buck, you got about the worst face I ever saw for keepin’ secrets. What’s going on?”

Buck tried to shrug again, but was cut off when JD heard Darcy’s voice coming from behind them. “Ah, Mr. Dunne, ye’re up I see.”

“Yeah, I’m up.” JD repeated, starting to get a little steamed at Buck’s caginess. He turned around to complain to Darcy about it - and stopped.

Darcy was standing in the alley, smiling widely, but that wasn’t what JD was staring at. Instead, his eyes were locked on the beautiful dark brown horse with the white star on its forehead, that stood at Darcy’s side, tugging impatiently at the bridle he held and whinnying softly.

_My horse._ JD was overwhelmed by the rush of joy he felt. He stumbled down the last step, felt Buck’s steadying hand on his arm, shook it loose as he took a trembling step toward Darcy with his cane. My horse -

Darcy smiled and regarded the elegant animal at his side. “She insisted on comin’ to see ye. Told me she misses ye, and wouldn’t be at all disappointed if ye wanted to saddle up, and learn how to ride her again. D’ye think ye’d like to do that, JD?”

JD stepped up to his horse slowly, as if he was dreaming and didn’t want to wake up and lose it. The animal saw him, stamped its foot and reached its head forward,and JD put out one shaking hand and stroked the horse’s soft muzzle, felt tears sting his eyes. God, he’d missed this so much...

“Now,” he whispered, turning huge, begging eyes to Darcy as his horse ducked its head down and gently thumped it into his chest. “Can I start now?”

“Of course ye can,” Darcy replied as he handed the bridle to JD. “Only let’s get some breakfast in ye first. Mr. Wilmington, kindly get us a table at the restaurant while I assist Mr. Dunne here in gettin’ his friend back to her stall. We’ll be joinin’ ye shortly.”

“’Course, Mr. Thomas,” Buck replied, and JD turned from stroking his horse’s nose to see the gunslinger beaming at him.

I’m gonna ride again, Buck, JD wanted to say, but didn’t think he could talk, not without blubbering like some big baby. But Buck was looking at him in a way that didn’t ask for words, only wanted to share in his happiness. Then Buck gave him a final smile, and headed out of the alley.

JD turned back to his horse, knew Darcy was still standing there, but didn’t say anything to him, continued to pet the animal’s soft muzzle and thought, God, I missed this. He’d missed everything, the bristly feel of his horse’s coat, the soft musky smell, everything. His whole being ached to sling himself into the saddle, and pound off into the hills, the wind in his hair and the world rushing by his feet. Now, his soul cried out, and it took his entire being to control it, I want to ride now. Now.

“Come, my boy,” he heard Darcy say quietly. “Let’s take a walk beck to the stables, and I’ll tell you what’s to be done.”

And starting later that morning, JD got his wish. And rode.

  
  


It took some time to get JD comfortable in the saddle again; he was immensely frustrated to find that he had to learn to ride again, just as he’d had to learn to walk. But fortunately, it wasn’t as arduous an endeavor as relearning walking was, for several reasons.

First, Darcy explained to Buck and the others as they watched JD maneuver his way awkwardly around the hay bales that had been set up in the corral, JD had a God-given talent. He knows, Darcy said, it’s deep inside him where no mortal injury can reach it. He draws on that, and the horse follows him.

Then there was the fact that he wanted it so badly; no one, not even Darcy, could keep JD out of the saddle once he learned he could get back into it. It became a common joke that JD’s horse got a lot more exercise than JD ever had, and both horse and rider seemed the happier for it. JD had nothing if not determination, Josiah noted proudly; and it seemed to be paying off.

And so it was on a warm day not too long after that golden morning that Darcy and the other men were lounging at the corral, watching JD make his way around the hay bales with an increasingly unerring precision, his bowler hat firmly set on his head, his black hair flying in the slight breeze.

“Just about good as new,” Vin remarked as he draped both arms over the rough wooden fence.

Darcy squinted into the sun and nodded. “He’ll have to work on his jumping yet, and some of the fancier stuff. But it will come, easier and easier.”

“Praise the Lord,” Josiah said softly, shaking his head as he watched JD move about, horse and rider, together and one. “Another miracle has taken place.”

Ezra nodded agreement, then turned to look at Buck, saw a peculiarly wistful expression on the gunslinger’s face. Glancing around so as not to embarrass his friend by calling attention to him, Ezra leaned close and said, “Mr. Wilmington?”

“Hm?” Buck blinked and sniffed, shook his head a bit and looked at Ezra. “Oh - yeah?”

“Nothing,” the gambler remarked. “You simply had this - you looked somewhat preoccupied.”

“Oh - it was nothin’,” Buck said quickly, wiping his face with his dirty bandanna. “Nothin’.”

JD finished his maneuvers, trotted his horse over to the group with a huge, self-satisfied grin on his face.

“Was that okay?” he asked in an enthusiastic voice.

“Fine, son,” Darcy praised. “In fact, I doubt ye could do better. Get down here a moment, I’d like to share a word.”

“Sure,” JD slung himself off the saddle, almost as if he’d never been injured, although Darcy’s hands were quick to catch him as he awkwardly slung his leg over the horse’s back. As Josiah took the animal’s bridle, JD set himself on the ground and said, “I’m all right.”

“Of course ye are, son,” Darcy said reassuringly, and cast his light eyes on the group as they all gathered around him. “And I’m glad ye are, in fact that’s sort of my announcement.”

The men looked at him curiously.

Darcy cleared his throat, met their gaze. “Gentlemen, JD is healed as far as my talents can take him. He’ll get stronger, faster, more sure; but my work is done. And I’ll be takin’ my leave of ye at the end of the week.”

The men looked at each other, at Darcy, at JD. None of them said anything for a moment, then Josiah said, “Well, that’s a shame, doc. I know I speak for the others when I say, we’re sure gonna miss you.”

“And the feelin’s mutual,” Darcy said with a sincere smile. “But it’s time for me to move on.”

“We got you for the rest of the week, though, right?” JD asked anxiously. “Cause I got this move, I just know I can do it - ”

Darcy laughed as JD turned back toward his horse, reached out and steadied the youth as he grabbed at the bridle. “I’m sure ye can, JD, just watch yerself.”

“He’s gonna hurt himself again, so you don’t leave.” Nathan suggested with amusement.

There was laughter, and the men watched as JD tried, tried, then succeeded at mounting his horse. He faced them with that huge, I-can-do-anything smile.

“Oh, you’re laughing at me,” he said defensively. “But you just watch. Josiah, let go of the bit, huh?”

The big man shook his head. “What’re you planning on, JD?”

The youth’s face fell. “Oh, come on! It’s just that small jump, I swear, it isn’t even dangerous - ”

As JD and Josiah argued, Darcy shook his head at looked at the fence. The other men had left it, to go around into the corral, but Buck remained there, looking up at JD. Darcy walked over to him; Buck’s gaze didn’t waver.

“That’s the same look ye were givin’ before, that ye told Mr. Standish was nothin’,” Darcy noted, in soft tones.

Buck blinked, smiled a little. “Yeah, I guess.”

Darcy nodded, looked back at JD, waited.

Buck shifted his position on the rail fence, then whispered, “First time I laid eyes on that kid he was jumpin’ that fence over there - ” He pointed with one hand as he spoke. “Just jumped it like it an inch high, same suit, same horse, same damn bowler hat.”

Darcy smiled at the admiring tone in Buck’s voice, kept his silence.

Buck cleared his throat, looked at the splintered wood beneath him. “Mr. Thomas, without you I reckon JD would have just died, an’ wouldn’t be nothin’ we could have done to save him. I owe you for that, and if you ever need a hand you just give ol’ Buck a call and I’ll come runnin’. I mean that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wilmington,” Darcy replied, turning his head to give the gunslinger an appreciative look. “Thank you.”

And the two men watched the lively debate continue in companionable silence.

  
  


Darcy Thomas’ going away party was a huge, community-wide affair. Everyone in town, it seemed, had reason to appreciate and want to thank the sturdy Irishman who had helped them all out so much. So it was no surprise when it turned out that the church was nowhere near big enough to accommodate all the guests, and by nine o’clock the party had spilled into the street, and everyone was having a fantastic time.

Mary was there, dressed up and smiling, the tensions of the past months gone from her fair face as she laughed and smiled with Matthew Dwight and the other townsfolk. Conklin was there too, for a while, but didn’t seem comfortable, and left early. Gloria and Emmie traded housekeeping secrets, and Rita and Maria sampled the food and learned how to waltz, courtesy of Buck, who insisted neither would leave until he’d taught them proper. They didn’t seem to mind that the lessons took a long time to teach.

Darcy had, during his stay, treated many of the townspeople for various ailments, and helped Nathan with still more, so they were grateful. Many people who hadn’t needed the physician’s medical advice were still aware of his miraculous hand in healing JD, and because of their fondness for the young sheriff, were also grateful. Of course, there were some people who were just in the mood to dance and drink - outside, of course - and they were at least grateful for the opportunity, even if they weren’t entirely sure who Darcy Thomas was. So a good time was being had by all.

The church had been set up with enough bright lights to turn the humble edifice into a blazing beacon, a star right on the earth Josiah said when he saw how brilliantly the lights burned. There was plenty of punch and baked goods, and the pews had been set up around the edge of the room for people to sit, and an area for dancing if anyone felt like it. Several people with musical instruments had shown up, and before long the whole town seemed alive with lively tunes and laughter. And no one laughed more, or seemed to have a better time, than the men of the Magnificent Seven.

Chris was still in the jail, and no amount of coaxing by any of his friends would draw him out. Vin said over a mug of beer that afternoon that he wasn’t sure what Chris was waiting for, but Josiah said he knew. There were a lot of people in town who were still wary of Chris, still unsure that he had shed any of the malice that had made him attack JD. Chris was still a dangerous man, and knew that his presence at a public function would cause nothing but trouble. It was better to stay away.

But he doesn’t have to sit in the jail, Nathan argued. He could go to his room, nobody even had to know. To that, Josiah shrugged, and merely repeated what Chris had said when he tried to tell him his trial was over: it wasn’t time yet.

So, Chris was absent, but the others were scattered around the church, and the grounds beyond; Vin was sitting in a corner, drinking a glass of punch and watching the crowd; Buck had found several willing dancing partners, and was flirting with all of them at the same time; Ezra was performing card tricks for the children, who had come with their parents to pay their respects to Darcy for nursing them through sickness and injury; and Josiah and Nathan were lounging near the door with Darcy, who was exhausted after a full day of farewells and toasts and at eight forty-five had set himself firmly in the first chair he could find, pulled out his pipe, and declared himself officially relaxing. Nobody argued.

“This is a fine sendoff you’re getting, doc,” Josiah said appreciatively as he scanned the merrymaking throng in the church. “Almost makes up for your leavin’.”

Nathan smiled in agreement, his expression rueful as he looked at the man he’d come to regard as a friend. “Yeah, it ain’t gonna be the same around here without you, you know. You might get up tomorrow and find out somebody stole your horse just so you don’t go.”

Darcy smiled at the compliment and nodded. “Aye, if I’d known ye had parties like this every time somebody left town, I’d have left a long time ago. And come back, just to get another one.”

Josiah chuckled, then scratched his face and leaned forward, his expression serious as he looked into the Irishman’s eyes. “You might not hear it from everybody, Darcy, but on their behalf I want you to know how much we appreciate what you did for JD.”

Darcy looked down at his pipe.

Nathan nodded, his face equally earnest. “We was ready to give up hope before you showed up. Don’t think we can do anything to thank you proper.”

“Ah, but there is,” Darcy replied softly, his eyes flicking up to meet Nathan’s in an even gaze.

Nathan cocked his head.

“Keep fightin’ injustice the way ye have been,” Darcy said, leaning back to gesture at Ezra and Buck, and Vin in the far corner. “All of ye, the inspiration ye provide with yer courage and strength is all the thanks I require. It’s more than enough, really.”

“You’ve been reading JD’s dime novels,” Josiah said in a gently teasing way, reaching to the floor for his mug of punch.

Darcy smiled in reply, pulled out his pocket watch and checked it. “Speaking of the lad, he should be here by now.”

“He will be,” Nathan said as he removed a cigar from his breast pocket. “He told Buck he wanted to rest up, and if he didn’t by nine-thirty to come and get him. He wouldn’t miss your party, doc. You know that.”

“Aye,” Darcy sighed as he tucked his watch back in his pocket. “He’ll be the hardest of all of ye to leave, I think. He has the fight of Ireland in him, I’m jealous ye get to be around it all the time.”

“Yeah, well,” Josiah replied with a sideways look to where Buck was talking to a young lady. “Come back in a few more months, and you’ll probably be seein’ the fight of Ireland doggin’ Buck again, and Buck givin’ it right back.”

“Just like old times.” Nathan said fondly as he lit his cigar.

At that moment Vin wandered over, walked to Darcy’s side and extended his hand. Darcy shifted his pipe to his left hand, stood up and grasped the tracker’s hand warmly.

“I’ll be leavin’ to go patrol pretty soon,” Vin said in his slow drawl. “Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind about an escort come mornin’.”

Darcy smiled as he looked into those blue eyes and shook his head. “No, it’s very kind of ye, but I’ll be leavin’ early, and it’ll be easier on all if I take my leave of you fine gentlemen tonight, while we have music and dance about us. I’ll disappear tomorrow, and leave the way I came.”

“You came with Chris,” Vin pointed out as his hand fell to his side.

Darcy glanced toward the door of the church, toward where the jail was, then looked back sadly. “I’ll see him in the morning, before I go. He’ll not come out, and if there’s anything I’ve learned in these past four months, it’s that he’s much more stubborn than I am, and that’s saying quite a lot.”

There was a pause, and when Darcy looked back from the church door he saw Vin looking at him with grateful eyes.

“You’re a good man, Mr. Thomas,” he said softly. “Chris was lucky - we all were - that you found him when you did.”

“It wasn’t luck, Mr. Tanner,” Darcy said, in a manner that attempted to be flip, but failed when his voice caught. He looked at the altar in the back of the church, its seven candles still burning, and looked down as he shook his head. “No, more than luck, certainly. A divine hand was involved, I’m sure of it.”

“Amen,” Josiah said softly, almost too low for anyone to hear.

Vin shifted his weight, looked at Darcy uncertainly. “Wish that divine hand would help JD out a little more. He’s walkin’ again, but his heart’s still broke. I don’t think he’ll ever be up to forgivin’ Chris.”

Darcy nodded sadly as the others exchanged melancholy looks and said, “What Mr. Dunne’s been through the rest of us can only guess at. But with friends such as ye around him, I’m confidant he can walk through the fires of this life, just as Chris and ye have, and come out stronger on the other side. And in that strength, he’ll find the peace his heart needs.”

Vin looked down, then at Josiah and Nathan, at Ezra and Buck a short distance away, at the townspeople around them, then back to the floor. “Hope you’re right, Mr. Thomas. Some people would say if we’re all he’s got, it still ain’t much.”

“He has the world, gentlemen,” Darcy said in a voice full of admiration and respect, and he nodded as he added, “and it will help him heal. I’m sure of it.”

  
  



	21. Chapter 21

In his room, JD fidgeted with his vest and sighed, looking in the mirror for the hundredth time. Why the heck am I so nervous? Well, that was a dumb question. He was nervous because he knew as soon as he walked into that party, every eye would be on him and he’d feel stupid and probably fall flat on his face. That’s why he was nervous.

He was done getting ready, and couldn’t put it off any more. Okay, deep breaths, one, two. JD sighed again, looked at his reflection, which was made light and dark by the oil lamp behind him. I’m not ready yet. Maybe I’ll just go back to bed...

But no, Buck would come up and make a big deal out of everything, and Nathan would nag him for not getting more exercise now that he was walking, so JD knew he had to go. He turned around, found his fancy walking stick and glanced back at the mirror. Bat Masterson. At a whim JD tilted the bowler hat a little, tried to look rakish. Nah, that just looked stupid. Back on straight.

Despite his loathing of the device, JD had found that the walking stick made getting around easier, and using it he managed to get out into the hallway much quicker than his pounding heart was prepared for. He closed the door to his room, glanced up and down the hallway nervously. Wait a minute. Stairs. I need to practice on the stairs.

Yes, that would stall him having to go out for a few minutes...he could go to the room Darcy had rented, and practice going up and down those stairs they’d built, just to be sure. Just to be sure...

He made his way quickly down to the exercise room, but found it to be locked. Nuts. Then JD remembered that Darcy always put the key on the bureau in his room. Maybe his room was unlocked...

JD hobbled to Darcy’s room, glanced once more up and down the hall, then bit his lip and opened the door. He didn’t feel guilty about breaking into Darcy’s room - all he wanted was the key - but still he found himself holding his breath as he turned the handle slowly, and heard the door softly click open.

The room was dark, of course, and JD opened the door wide to see his way around. Everything was neatly folded and mostly packed away, and JD frowned at how neat the place was. He hated being reminded that his own room was a disaster area. But the key...

JD’s eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, and he padded his hand on the bureau, looking for the key. Nothing. Oh, wait, what was - no, that’s a tie pin. Hm...

As JD felt his way along, his eyes wandered the room until he spotted a dark object draped over a chair in one dim corner. He peered at it, squinted, and suddenly lifted his hand from the bureau in surprise.

Chris’ coat. It was Chris’ black coat.

JD felt a sudden thrill of fear, felt his breath catch in his throat. Forgetting the key, he took up his walking stick and made his way to that dim corner, his hazel eyes wide as he stared at the formless black duster, casually thrown over the wooden chair.

Chris’ coat. His former hero’s emblem.

JD reached out one tentative hand, ran it over the musty fabric, felt his eyes misting up at the revulsion the feel of it caused. Damn it, Chris, why did you do this to me? I’m better now, but I think I hate you, and that’s not going to go away. And all because you had to get drunk...

JD’s knees felt weak, and he sat down on the floor, certain the hall would remain deserted and no one would see Darcy’s door open. He was hidden from view by the high bed, and leaned his back against it as he continued to contemplate Chris’ duster, framed by the hallway light in sharp lights and darks, like an oil painting of a murder weapon.

JD sighed, felt the nightmare returning, the hideous uncertainty that had visited him that morning, when Buck had asked him, so, what do you think of Chris?

What do I think of you? JD stared at the coat with baleful eyes.

I hate you.

It was hard to breathe suddenly, and JD hugged himself, stared at the folded mound of dark fabric and felt himself sliding into a chasm of tangled memories; fear and terrible pain, the fractured agony of waking up and not knowing who anybody was, the freefall of despair that awful night that he’d leaned against Buck’s side and cried.

JD shuddered, thought about that night, remembered how scared and alone he’d felt. I wanted to die that night. I felt so useless and everything hurt so bad. Mrs. Travis needed me, they all needed me, and I couldn’t help them. I thought my life was over. If it hadn’t been for Buck...

JD paused, considered that for a moment. What if Buck hadn’t been around? Or any of them, they could have all been killed by Concho’s men, it could have happened. If Vin had gotten hung, if Josiah and Nathan had died trying to free him, if Ezra had been gunned down at Nathan’s door...if Buck -

JD shook his head and gasped, no - when he tried to picture it, himself crippled and alone, it was like a big black hole, and he could feel the handle of his Colt Lightning in his hand, at the bottom of it. No, he thought again, shoved that thought away, and shuddered, too terrified at the aching loneliness that image brought on to even look at it again. Too much.

JD blinked, looked at the floor, looked back up at Chris’ duster. Only Chris would have escaped, because he wasn’t there. Maybe with the town destroyed and all of them dead, he wouldn’t have come back. Sure, Chris was sorry now, but that was because he’d gotten caught. But maybe, if he hadn’t, he would have just kept going. And maybe not even cared.

Tears stung JD’s eyes, and he bent his head down, glad it was dark and nobody could see him. He didn’t want to hate Chris, didn’t want to let go of that last shred of optimism left in his tired heart. It had been so wonderful, that six months, when they’d all been together and strong. JD had always believed, always been told, that were good, strong people out there, worth following and giving your trust to. And JD had wanted it to be true, wanted that so badly he’d looked past Chris’ temper, his violent bad moods, and thought he’d found someone to follow. And he’d been happy.

But how could he believe now? Chris had hurt him, beaten him up, and that’s what bad people did, not good people. Sure, Buck said Chris was sorry, and he’d done time, but what did that prove? He might have just been trying to get the others’ trust back, keep himself from getting lynched. Maybe he was pretending. Or maybe he was just sorry because he got caught.

JD thought of how he used to idolize Chris, thought of the warm glow he felt when he thought the man was going after his attackers. Chris Larabee cares about me, he’d thought. Chris really wants to do whatever it takes to make things right.

Hah.

JD sniffed, wiped his eyes. Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised him that Chris didn’t care. What was he anyway, just some idiot kid who ran all way west like some puppy dog, pestering Chris until he let him join the group. Why should Chris apologize any further than the law allowed? Why should he do anything other than serve his time, get somebody to make JD better so he doesn’t get lynched, and then ride out of town like none of it mattered? And why did it hurt JD so much to think that that was exactly what was going to happen?

 _Jesus, Chris._ JD rubbed at his eyes, at the tears in them. I can’t believe you did this to me.

Why didn’t you look at me? I looked at you. You put me through hell, Chris. I just about wanted to die for a while, but I didn’t. I got better, but it hurt sometimes, it felt like fire. Some days it would be so hard just to move at all, and I’d want to give up. I don’t know why I didn’t, except maybe I felt like I’d be letting my mother down if I did. And Buck, and the other guys. I’d get so tired of trying, and hurting, and not getting better, but I did, I got better, and now Mr. Thomas says I’ll be good as new before long.

Except for my heart. That still hurts like the first night I remembered how I got this way. And I think one day, it’ll kill me.

We were a family, Chris. I looked up to you, you were my hero, dammit, and you let me down. I believed in those dime novels, believed that good was good, and then you had to go and show me that everything I believed was a lie. A lie you laughed about while you were beating me up, a lie you threw aside like it didn’t matter to you at all. Well, it mattered to me, Chris. Maybe it was stupid and childish and a waste of your time, but it mattered to me...

There was a thump down the hall, and JD gasped, suddenly aware of how late it was getting. Hurriedly, he wiped his face and made to stand up, reaching out to the chair to hoist himself up. Halfway up, his hand slipped, and he fell back to the floor with a thud and a soft curse, the duster wrinkling in his hand as he clutched it in frustration.

And something fell out of it.

JD frowned when he heard the sound, like something metallic. JD looked around the floor, then saw something shiny sitting on the wooden floor at his feet and picked it up.

It was a wedding ring.

JD frowned deeper. Chris’ wedding ring? Must be, but why was it in an outside pocket of his duster? Why didn’t he have it somewhere safe? Why -

JD glanced at the coat, still bunched up in one hand. His hand was over a pocket, which had opened and caused the ring to fall out. And there was something else there too, a torn piece of paper looked like, folded neatly and sticking halfway out of the pocket, its whiteness stark contrast to the black of the duster. JD let go of the coat, pulled the paper out, too curious now to care if someone came in and saw him. He unfolded the note and read:

  
  


To whoever finds this,

My name is Chris Larabee. I’m putting this note in my coat pocket, so if you find it you’re likely standing on what was once my ranch. Please bury me in the little graveyard next to the two crosses that are marked Sarah and Adam. They are my wife and son.

After you bury me, go to the Four Corners Clarion and ask for Mrs. Mary Travis. Tell her you are the beneficiary of my estate, and show her this letter. I own this ranch, and what’s in a room I rent in town. This is what I want you to do.

Sell the land my ranch is on. Sell everything in my room. My horse might still be around here somewhere; sell him too.

In Four Corners there may still be some men who I am proud to say I knew. Their names are Vin Tanner, Buck Wilmington, Ezra Standish, Josiah Sanchez, Nathan Jackson, and JD Dunne.

The money you make from the sale of my estate is for JD Dunne’s care and comfort. He was injured through my carelessness and stupidity, and my last wish is that all I own be used to provide for whatever he needs. You may run into a Mr. Darcy Thomas. He has my wedding ring, and instructions like these. Maybe you can work together.

I hope JD Dunne and the others are still in town when you get there. They are all good men. Don’t say my name to them, esp. JD. He might not accept your help.

If you meet Mr. Thomas, tell him I wish things had turned out like he wanted them to. Tell him I hope the ring buys JD everything he needs, or wants. He should have it. He should have had a better hero than me.

C.L.

\------------------------------------------------------

JD finished reading the note, paused. Then frowned, and read the note again. It didn’t make sense. It was Chris’ handwriting all right, but it sounded like something Chris would write if he was sick, or wounded, and thought he might die. But he was fine when he came back...JD scanned the note a third time, read the last line out loud. He should have had a better hero than me.

That didn’t sound like Chris at all. Or if it was, he was pretty depressed. Really depressed, almost like he wanted to -

\- die.

JD’s eyes popped open and he read the note again. It’s a suicide note. His confusion deepened, along with a queasy fear. JD blinked at the words, felt the despair in them, and looked at the ring in his fingers. Chris’ ring. His wedding ring. Sell it, sell everything, for me?

For me?

No, it didn’t make sense, because JD knew that if Chris was determined enough to kill himself, he’d have done it. Nobody messed with Chris when his mind was made up.

But Chris was still alive...

JD turned the ring over in his fingers, gazed at the gleaming golden band, felt the sorrow in it. It was a heavy ring, even in JD’s inexperienced opinion it was worth a lot of money. But Chris wanted it sold. Wanted everything sold, for him.

He was injured through my carelessness and stupidity...

He should have had a better hero than me...

JD grunted, felt a strange pain in his heart. It was too much, to think that Chris had been so upset at what he’d done that he would want to die. He’d laughed as he beat JD, he’d slung him against a wall and left him to die, and he didn’t care, he didn’t care at all -

But...

A heavy gold ring, a carefully penned note, last instructions. He was injured through my stupidity...he should have everything he needs or wants...he should have had a better hero than me...

JD moaned, let his head bang against the side of the bed. He didn’t want this, didn’t want to think that Chris had been so sad over what he’d done that he felt like dying. It felt wrong, out of place. The Chris he’d been hating wouldn’t feel that way, and the gilded hero of before would never have hurt him like Chris did, so what was left? It doesn’t make sense, if Chris felt that bad, was sorry and torn up and felt like he wanted to die, it would mean that he felt...

...felt like me.

For a few moments JD sat in the dark and shook, thought he could feel the anguish and pain he’d known in those black months course through him and shoot through the ring he held, suffuse it, joining Chris’ pain and his. Oh, God, I’m losing my mind. But it felt right, to think that Chris had felt the way he’d felt, that night he’d cried against Buck. It felt right, to believe that in that kind of despair Chris had written that letter. I would have written a letter that night, JD thought, if I was alone and thought nobody was going to come. I would have wanted somebody to know...

JD squeezed the ring in his fist for a moment, scrunched his face up. God, he hurt like me? He was alone, I wasn’t, why didn’t he kill himself? Living when you wanted to die hurt, continuing on when you wanted everything to stop hurt, and for a moment JD didn’t understand how Chris could feel bad enough to want to die, like he had, bad enough to plan it, and not do it. I would have done it, that night, he thought with a shiver. I would have...it would have been such a relief, such an easy peace after so much pain, I would have been with my mama again....

But it wouldn’t have been right.

JD’s head snapped up, and he looked around. That thought had been so clear, so real he thought maybe Darcy had come back, or Buck was there. Or maybe even his mama. But he was alone.

He slumped over again, looked at the golden wedding ring in his palm, peered at it as he thought. It wouldn’t have been right...no, it wouldn’t have. JD was glad now he hadn’t been in a situation where he could have killed himself, because then he never would have found out he could walk again, that he would be okay. It had been hard, terribly hard, but he’d gone through with it, and in the end it had been right. It was what he was supposed to do.

It’s not your time yet, JD, he heard his mother’s voice say. Someday.

And Chris...why hadn’t Chris killed himself? Did he hear voices too? He’d come back instead, he had to know they all hated him. JD’s mind flew back to that day in the jail. It seemed so long ago, Chris standing there ramrod straight and the others facing him, Ezra as mad as JD had ever seen him, Nathan shooting daggers with his eyes. Buck wouldn’t even look at him, he was so angry. If I’d been Chris, and I knew how much they hated me, that would have hurt worse than anything. Maybe worse than he’d felt that night even, but Chris didn’t run from it, didn’t make excuses or beg for a second chance. He just stood there, and took it. God...

And Chris’ words, so loud and strong they rang in the tiny room, I attacked JD Dunne in the alleyway outside this jail. He was badly hurt, and I’m responsible. I’m here to turn myself in.

I’m here to turn myself in.

That was why Chris had come back. JD realized that he had never really listened to those words before. Chris had come to make things right, stood in front of six men who hated him so much JD could feel it, because that was the right thing to do. And then walked over to that cell and shut himself in, and was still there, four months later, and JD remembered the last words he’d heard Chris say, when JD walks through that door you can let me out. And then he’d sat down, and waited.

Waited, maybe forever.

_He’s sorry, JD. He wishes this whole thing had never happened._

And still waited.

_What he did tore him up inside. Made him want to die. He wanted ye to know that._

He could have been with his wife and son, right now. But he’s not. He’s here, waiting.

_He should have had a better hero than me._

Waiting for...

A minute later, JD closed the door to Darcy’s room with a loud click, leaving it empty and dark once again. A moment after that, the silence in the hall was broken only by the sound of his faltering footsteps as he made his way toward the stairs as fast as he possibly could.

  
  


Chris was reading on his cot, hunched over to better read the words by the light of an oil lamp Josiah had placed in his cell. He heard the door open, glanced up from his book but for a moment couldn’t place the footsteps. Too light for Buck, too unsure for Josiah -

\- then he heard the thud of a cane, and Chris Larabee froze in sudden witless fear.

JD.

The footsteps came closer, slow but determined. _Face him, dammit._ But for a moment Chris couldn’t do anything but stare at the flickering flame of the lamp, his mind blanking except for the dreadful thought: this is it.

They had all forgiven him, more or less, except for JD. His world had recovered, except in the one place where he was sure it would never be right again. He had single-handedly destroyed JD’s existence, and now the time had come to live or perish by it.

This is it.

The footsteps continued, horribly loud in that sepulcherial quiet, and Chris suddenly found as he turned on the small cot that every muscle, every bone in his body ached horribly. He fought it, tried to quiet the furious pounding of his heart, and willing himself to stand, turned around, and faced the front of his cell.

He couldn’t look at JD’s face at first, looked at the ground instead, saw the uncertain feet, the bottom of the elegant cane. He felt a lump in his throat, said to himself, it’s only temporary, Darcy said he wouldn’t need it forever, just for a while. Oh, Christ...

JD came closer, his form outlined by the amber glow of the lamp that sat on the desk behind him. He’s walking so slow, Chris thought miserably, remembering the boy’s giddiness, the scrambling gait of youth. Gone now, maybe forever, and I took it away from him. I’ll live with it forever. Does he know that?

Silence; the footsteps stopped. Chris’ eyes flickered up, saw that JD was standing directly in front of him now. Chris knew he couldn’t avoid looking in those eyes forever, could not for one more second delay the meeting that he had been dreading for four months. It was time. Gripping the iron bars so he couldn’t turn away, and mustering every ounce of strength he possessed, Chris Larabee lifted his head and looked into JD’s eyes.

And what did he see there? In those hazel depths that once shone when they spoke his name, what remained? For a brief instant Chris saw nothing, only the fire-red wall of his own fears, the flung-up wall of shock to prevent knowing a feared thing too quickly. In that first, breathless instant Chris saw nothing; then he blinked, and looked again.

JD was looking at him steadily, his long-lashed eyes never wavering, holding Chris’ soul with an iron grip. Chris flinched from its intensity, but there was no punishment there. There was knowing, and the timeless maturity of one who has survived a great ordeal, and finds in it new strength. Chris searched those eyes, tried to find the hatred he was sure had to be there, but there was none. Only a wisdom borne of tragedy, and the stubborn soul of a boy determined to be a man. And becoming one.

Chris stared in awe, felt he should say something and opened his mouth. He was stopped when JD took a sharp breath and held out his hand. Startled, Chris looked down and saw in the youth’s trembling palm his wedding ring, and the note he’d written.

 _Oh, God._ Chris stared at the ring and the note. JD, you weren’t supposed to see these. You weren’t - He looked up at JD’s face again, ashamed that the boy had been witness to his darkest hour, and was amazed to see tears in those huge hazel eyes. _Not for me...._ But JD’s whole heart was in his eyes, and it was impossible to mistake what was there.

Forgiveness.

 _My God._ Chris felt himself shivering as if he were very cold. I don’t deserve this, I don’t, you should hate me forever. How can you forgive me? But it was true, it was there, in those large green eyes flecked with gentlest brown, an understanding and a forgiveness that was so powerful Chris almost cried out. But he didn’t, only stood there, and stared. And silently reached forward and took the ring and note from JD’s outstretched palm.

JD stared at Chris, felt himself shaking all over from what he had seen when he looked into his eyes. They were the eyes of a man who had beaten him and left him for dead, whom he had once worshipped and then hated with a ferocity that would have alarmed men twice his age. It had been hard, so hard to look at Chris, but JD had to know if what the note said was true, if what Buck and the others believed was so. JD had heard that Chris was sorry, didn’t believe it, and then believed with a keenness that pierced his young soul, burned it, and drew a phoenix from its ashes. And now he was looking at Chris, and what he saw went beyond his experience, beyond everything he knew. It was a revelation.

He looked into Chris’ eyes, saw at first only the gauntness there, the lines around the eyes he didn’t remember being there before. Then JD looked, really looked, and was surprised to see that Chris was scared. He’d never seen Chris scared, not even when he was being shot at, but there was such fear and anxiety in those blue eyes, and JD suddenly realized, he’s scared of me. He’s afraid of me, why? Chris, you were willing to give up everything you had for me. Hurting me made you so upset you were going to kill yourself. You gave away your wedding ring so I could get better. I thought your jail time was just show, but it wasn’t. I’m looking in your eyes, you look so sad and scared, like you’re going to start crying, but you don’t understand, I don’t hate you anymore. What you did was pretty awful, but you came back. You made sure I got better. You set things right, Chris, like Josiah’s always telling us to do, and you sure didn’t have to. And now...now you’re not running away from me, even though I can tell you want to, that I remind you of that night and it scares you. It scares me too Chris, I have nightmares. I’ll bet you do too. But it’s going to be all right, Chris. I guess I’ll never be able to think of you as some dime-novel hero, but you know what, you’re a lot braver than any of them ever were. I guess I can’t worship you any more; but can I respect you? Would that be okay? Because I think I do, Chris. I think I do.

You’re sorry, Chris. I know it. And I think...that’s going to help a lot of things.

Chris swallowed, finally broke away from JD’s powerful gaze. He looked at the rough planking beneath his feet, gripped the bars as if they were the only things that kept him standing. He blinked, felt a tear fall, blinked again. Then he looked up at JD, and saw that the boy had moved.

The youth was reaching into his pocket, having tucked his walking stick under one arm. He pulled something out, was fiddling with it, and when he drew his hands away Chris saw what he was doing and gasped.

His sheriff’s star. JD had pinned on his sheriff’s star, as carefully and as perfectly as if he had done it with a ruler. He tugged at it a moment, then looked up at Chris with a gaze that was completely serious, his hazel eyes those of a man now, no longer a youth. The eyes of the law.

Chris almost started at that gaze, so different was it from the JD he had known. The youth seemed to dissolve before his eyes, shift and change into the young man who would ride, and shoot, and be the final and best part of them all. Chris shook his head a bit, felt as if he was seeing a vision; but JD remained, his face solemn, his posture straight and set.

And, never taking those grown-up eyes off Chris’ face, JD reached behind him, took the keys off their wooden peg, and in one swift motion unlocked the cell door and opened it wide. And Chris Larabee walked out of the iron cage, a free man.

  
  


The brightly-lit church was becoming very warm, and finally Darcy decided to walk to the open doors and enjoy the light breeze, quietly puffing on his pipe and staring at the stars as he did so. He had been there a few moments when he heard footsteps behind him and a Southern voice say, “Mr. Thomas?”

He turned. Ezra Standish was standing there. After glancing around for a moment, the gambler said, “I wonder, sir, if I may have a word with you?”

“Certainly.” Darcy replied, stepping out onto the narrow front stoop of the church steps. As Ezra joined him, he said, “What can I do for ye?”

The gambler paused, cleared his throat; did it again; then said, “You’ll have to pardon me, sir, I am not used to relaying words of appreciation in such a ...” He paused, stopped, started over. “Your services to Mr. Dunne were in my opinion extraordinary, and I would be the coarsest villian if I left my gratitude towards you unexpressed. You have an astonishing talent.”

“Thank ye for yer kind words, Mr. Standish,” Darcy replied humbly. “But my talent is useless without a patient determined to recover. And friends to help him as he does.”

Ezra coughed, looked at the ground as if that word embarrassed him. But when he looked back up, his green eyes glowed with admiration.

“The value of my friendship I cannot attest to,” he admitted with a self-deprecating smile. “But yours to that boy is priceless. Thank you, sir. And if you’re ever in St. Louis - ”

“Stop in and play a few rounds with yer mother,” Darcy finished as he took Ezra’s offered hand. “Mr. Wilmington told me about her. Sounds like a charming woman.”

“Well, she is,” Ezra said with a trace of confusion. “But I was actually going to warn you **not** to play cards with her.”

“Ah,” Darcy replied with a knowing smile as they shook hands. “Well, then I’ll consider meself warned.”

Ezra smiled in reply, but said nothing further because at that moment there was the sound of stomping footsteps, and an instant later Buck appeared at the door of the church, looking peeved and upset.

“That does it,” he fumed as he stopped next to Darcy and Ezra and stuffed his pocket watch back into his pants. “I gave that boy every last possible second to stall.”

Ezra shot the gunslinger a look and rolled his eyes. “Now, Mr. Wilmington, don’t undo months of Mr. Thomas’ hard work by provoking the youth. If he’s dawdling, perhaps he’s simply not ready for public - ”

“Aw, ‘course he is,” Buck snapped as he looked at the dark street and paused, hands on his hips. A moment later he heard movement behind him, turned his head a little to see the others gathering at his shoulder, Josiah and Nathan looking particularly amused. He kept fuming anyway.

“So ye’ve detached yerself from the fair lasses long enough to shake my hand, Mr. Wilmington?” Darcy asked around his pipe.

“Hm? Oh, sure.” Buck turned quickly, with a smile plastered hurriedly on his face. “Don’t worry, Mr. Thomas, you’ll get a proper sendoff, but first I got to go get that lazy rascal outta bed, so if you’ll pardon me - ”

He started down a step, but someone grabbed the shoulder of his jacket with such force that Buck not only couldn’t reach the stair, he just about yelled out loud. Whipping his head around, he saw Ezra just above him, his fair face white with surprise.

“Dang, Ezra,” Buck groused as he turned to see what his friend was looking at. “You don’t got to pull a - man’s - ”

Buck faltered, stopped. Stared.

They were far down the street, walking away from the church, not towards it. Two figures, barely visible in the dark, starlit night.

A tall, blond-haired man dressed in midnight black. And a slight, shirtsleeved youth with too-long raven hair, walking with a limp and the aid of an elegant cane, walking slowly, but surely, away, by the blond man’s side.

Together.

“God damn,” Buck whispered, forgetting where he was as he stared. “God damn. Anybody see what I’m seein’?”

“Uh-huh,” Nathan said softly.

“I do,” Josiah added.

Vin nodded.

A soft voice at Buck’s shoulder. “I see it, Mr. Wilmington.”

Darcy was there too, in the back behind Josiah, but at this sight he stepped forward and came down the stairs, slowly, and paused at the bottom as the group watched the two men continue on down the street.

Then Darcy felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up and saw Buck with tears in his eyes, unashamed.

“You were right, Mr. Thomas,” he said simply, his voice catching in the warm night air. “Thank you.”

Darcy nodded, knew there were tears in his own eyes and didn’t care.

“I do believe I have now seen a miracle,” Ezra said, in a voice that had not a hint of sarcasm in it.

“You did.” Josiah replied.

They all gazed at the sight, together, quiet and contemplative as the evening swung on behind them. Then, without another word, they all turned and went back inside, and gave Darcy a proper sendoff.

  
  


It was much later that night, after the last of the guests had gone and the others had finally agreed to call it a night - or early morning - when Josiah made his slow way through the church, straightening a little bit and blowing out the last of the candles before heading off to bed.

What a day it had been. He picked up an errant scrap of paper off the floor. What an unbelievable day.

He straightened, winced as his old muscles protested. There were only a few candles left, just two by the door and the seven on the altar. Josiah smiled to himself: guess we don’t need those anymore. He took a few steps toward the altar, to blow them out.

“Josiah.”

Josiah stopped, felt a shiver up his spine, turned around.

It was Chris.

Josiah held his breath, then released it. His mind went back to that awful first night, the rain, the thunder, the guilt-stricken man with the bloody knuckles who was half-wild with grief and remorse. It was the same scene now, the same man, the same church. That had not changed.

But when Chris stepped into the quiet sanctuary he had a smile on his face, and his dark eyes held a quietness and serenity Josiah hadn’t seen before. It wouldn’t last, probably; tomorrow they’d all find something to get mad about, some new evil to fight, and the Larabee temper would be back in full force.

But not as wild, Josiah hoped, maybe a little better focused. God help the evildoers.

“I know it’s late,” Chris said quietly as his footsteps echoed in the silent room. “Just wanted to come by and say thank you for all you done.”

Josiah played with the scrap in his hand, shrugged. “I didn’t do anything, Chris. You knew what you had to do, and you did it. Now everything’s right again.”

But the gunslinger was shaking his head. “You saw it even when I didn’t. You said I had a legion of demons in me, and you were right. I even found where you got that, in the Bible you left in my cell.”

“Is that right,” Josiah muttered.

“That’s right,” Chris answered with a small nod. “I know what happened to that man too, the one who had the legion of demons in him.”

Josiah tilted his head back and smiled. “And what was that, Chris?”

Chris’ grin was just as wide. “They got driven out, into a herd of swine. Think that’s where mine are headin’?”

Josiah felt the humor in his friend’s voice, looked at the floor so Chris wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes. He’d missed all of this. “Don’t know, Chris. Sure hope so.”

There was a pause, and then Chris said quietly, “You spoke up for me.”

Josiah looked up.

“You gave me a chance, and I won’t forget it. Thank you.”

Josiah nodded. “I’m glad it worked out, Chris. We all are.”

Chris’ head ducked, his long blond hair falling in front of tired blue eyes.

“So,” Josiah asked with a small grin, “you goin’ out lookin’ for swine tomorrow?”

Chris sighed, shrugged, looked at him in a weary but determined way.

“The way I see it, Josiah,” he said, “if we hang around here long enough, I reckon they’ll come lookin’ for us.”

Josiah felt so happy at seeing Chris smile he would have shouted if he hadn’t been so damned tired. Instead, he simply smiled and said, “Go get some sleep, Chris.”

Chris tilted his head, nodded assent. “Good night, Josiah.”

And as his friend’s footsteps faded toward the door and into the night, Josiah once again turned toward the altar, and its seven burning candles. He approached them, regarded the flames for a moment, thought; then left them burning brightly, and went to bed.

  
  


The morning sun had just risen, bringing with it all the golden, rosy hues of a new day, when Darcy Thomas walked out of his rented room for the last time and quietly clicked the door closed.

It was quiet in the hallway, which he expected. He’d said all of his goodbyes the night before, well most of them, and did not expect any kind of a dramatic farewell. Darcy set the key at the base of the door, pulled his coat down, and glanced toward the room down the hall from his. All of his goodbyes, but one...

JD’s door was slightly ajar as Darcy passed it, and he paused at it for a long time, staring into the darkness that lay beyond that tiny crack. Then he sighed, accepted that JD did not want an emotional, overwrought farewell, and walked on.

The morning street was still and silent; few people were about on this bright day. Darcy pulled on his gloves, looked around for the man he’d hoped to see, who he’d thought perhaps would ride with him, one final time. But Chris was not on the street.

Darcy paused, stepped off the boardwalk and decided it was time, finally time. A short walk to the livery, and then for home.

He heard footsteps beside him, from the alley, soft hoofbeats, and a muffled snort.

Darcy looked up.

JD held the reins of the horse firmly in one hand, his cane in the other. He stood there in the gray early morning light, beside the proud animal, his eyes gleaming as he looked at Darcy and gave him a crooked smile.

“Morning, Mr. Thomas,” he said, almost shyly, as if he didn’t want to talk too loud. Glancing toward Darcy’s mount he said, “I got her ready for ya, got everything on and cinched up just right.”

Darcy swallowed the lump in his throat, walked forward and looked at the youth, at how straight and strong he had become, all in a few months. “Thank you, JD.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t make the party last night,” The youth mumbled, clearing his throat and looking down at his cane as he idly stabbed the dirt. “I kind of - I talked to Chris.“

Darcy paused, didn’t say anything.

“You were right,” JD said softly, his voice choking, “He was sorry, he - I guess it really did almost kill him, what he did to me. I didn’t think it did, but...” He paused, heaved a big sigh, then said, “I let him out. He’s around here, somewhere, but he ain’t in the jail no more. So that’s over.”

“And how does that make ye feel?” Darcy asked softly.

JD shrugged. “Relieved, I guess, but kind of...empty, like something ‘s supposed to happen now, but I don’t know what it is.”

Darcy nodded. “It’ll come, JD, don’t worry. It’ll be all right. “

JD’s head came up quickly, and when his eyes met Darcy’s there was a kind of surprise there, a youthful wonder that permeated the boy’s being and spilled out of him.

“Yeah, it will,” he said in a low voice. “I didn’t used to think so, but...yeah, I think it will be all right. It really will.”

Darcy smiled at JD, put a hand on his shoulder. “Believe that, JD. No matter what, keep that spirit in ye, that star of hope, and ye’ll live forever, and never be beaten down.”

JD looked up at him for a moment, his hazel eyes struggling to maintain a manly stoicism, but it was no use. In one swift motion he wrapped his arms around Darcy, and gave him a tight, grateful hug.

Darcy returned the embrace, patted JD on the back and affectionately ruffled his hair before letting the youth go and gathering up the reins of his horse.

“You’re about the best there is, Mr. Thomas,” JD said in a husky whisper as he took as step backwards with his cane and regarded the Irishman with damp eyes. “I already told my mama to put in a good word for you, where she is. I’m sure she’ll do it.”

“She’s never far away, lad,” Darcy said as he stood beside his horse, just a few moments longer. “Remember that, and know you always have a safe port in a storm.”

“Yours aren’t either,” JD said, firmly but self-conciously. Cocking his head he added, “Your loved ones, I mean. Your mama, and your wife and baby. I think...they’re close.” He shrugged aimlessly, looked at the ground.

When JD looked back up, he noticed Darcy had a very peculiar look on his face, kind of like surprise, but more than that. But JD didn’t know what.

With that, Darcy swung himself onto the saddle and JD led him out into the street, leaning on his cane. The sun had come up just a little bit more, and as the they made their way onto the dusty thouroughfare Darcy looked up the street, and smiled.

A dark horse waited at the end of it, with a dark-clad rider sitting on it, turned golden by the rising sun.

JD saw it too, said, “Looks like you got an escort, Mr. Thomas.”

Darcy nodded, looked down. “Would ye like to make it two?”

JD shook his head. “Sorry, but I got something else I gotta do.” He reached up for Darcy’s hand. “Have a safe trip.”

“And ye as well, Mr. Dunne,” Darcy returned, and as the youth stepped back he spurred his horse forward, down the morning street and out of the town.

  
  


And JD watched him, watched Darcy reach the end of the street and join the dark-clad rider, watched them ride off together, a short way only. And then the rider would come back, alone.

The morning sun shone through the faraway cloud of dust, made it shimmer as it settled, and JD watched it, thought, and knew.

Knew what was supposed to happen.

And turned and made his way back up the boarding-room stairs, as fast as he could.

  
  


The early morning sun was brilliant, its golden hues touching and blessing everything it shone on as dawn broke the next day. It glowed warmly on Chris’ face as he rode the wide prairie, with Darcy Thomas at his side. The light was new and fresh, like everything around them. It was going to be a beautiful day.

“Ah, Chris,” Darcy sighed contentedly as both men let their horses slow to a walk. “I’m glad everything worked out for ye, and ye were able to come with me for part of me journey. It’ll give me somethin’ to sing about, the rest of the way home. And farther.”

Chris leaned over the horn of his saddle, gave the Irishman a knowing look. “You thinking of going back to Ireland?”

Darcy looked down at his hands, then nodded and peered at the morning sky. “This whole adventure has reminded me, it’s time to mend some fences of me own. There’s some people back home who’ve missed me, and it’s been too long. Far too long.”

“Well, I’m glad we had a chance to ride out here,” Chris said firmly, and when he looked at Darcy his eyes were serious. “Because I got something to tell you.”

Darcy swung his head over, waited.

Chris took a deep breath. “When you met me, I was set to kill myself. If it hadn’t been for you I’d be dead, the town would be taken over by Concho Charles, my friends would be scattered or dead and JD would be sittin’ in a wheelchair. I owe you a lot, Darcy. I owe you my life.”

Darcy didn’t shrug the compliment off, or try to make light of it. Instead, he reached out his hand and said, “It was my honor to do so, Chris Larabee. Truly.”

Chris took his hand, shook it warmly, but frowned and shook his head as he drew his hand back. “I still don’t get it.”

Darcy leaned back into his saddle with a placid smile.

Chris’ eyes were piercing with scrutiny as he continued. “You saved my life, more than once. You stayed in this godforsaken town for four months, to take care of someone who matters to me. You did all this, and you don’t even know me. Why?”

“Ah, now that’s a very good question,” Darcy said in a soft voice,and he studied the rosy hues of the coming dawn for a moment before he continued. When he did, his voice was low and full of emotion. “Ye ask why I do these things, Chris. I do them in the memory of one as dear to me as your friends are to you. A friend, who like your friends are with you, knew me, understood me - and put up with me anyway.”

Chris thought, remembered. “The friend whose ribs you broke? You ended up doing his laundry for three weeks?”

“The very one.” Darcy’s eyes grew misty as he rubbed his chin and scanned the distant mountains, now glimmering like pearls. “It’s very rare, that kind of friendship, you know. He introduced me to Reddie, he was Katie’s godfather. And when I lost it all, he came to my rescue. He was a true friend. In fact - ” Darcy’s smile grew a little. “Ye remind me of him quite a bit.”

Chris began to feel the melancholy in Darcy’s voice, the sadness in the quiet lilt. “What happened to him?”

“He disappeared some time ago.” Darcy sighed, leaning back in his saddle again. “We came to America together, and he was a hot one for the adventure. We always kept track of each other, and when I didn’t hear from him I went looking. And found nothing.”

Chris nodded, felt a familiar pang in his gut. Lost friends...

But when Darcy cocked his head toward Chris, there was something else in his eyes, and a smile on his lips when he said in brighter tones, “And then one day he came back. Came back, you see, from out of nowhere, singin’ the praises of one Chris Larabee. It seems, accordin’ to him, that ye saved his life.”

Chris was shocked. “I did?”

Darcy laughed. “Ye see, ye didn’t even realize it. To you he was just one more soul ye rescued from the pits of evil, I’m sure, but he was my dearest friend. ‘Ye keep an eye out for Chris Larabee’, he told me, ‘and if ye ever run into him, give him all the help ye can. He’s a good man, Darcy, for all his glaring and bluster. He helped me when he didn’t have to, and we shouldn’t forget it.’ Of course,” Darcy said, scratching his ear, “I don’t think he had any idea I’d be four months helping ye out. But it’ll make a fine evening at the pub, discussing it.”

“Wait a minute.” Chris shook his head in bewilderment. “I helped out a friend of yours? When? What’s his name?”

“His name’s not important,” Darcy said, the full flush of the morning sun in his face as he turned proud, triumphant eyes to his friend. “But the fact that ye helped him is. Ye have demons, Chris Larabee, but the goodness of yer soul and the lion’s strength of yer heart can conquer them, I know. I’ve seen it, and I promise ye in my house yer name will be held as sacred till the last candle dies.”

“My soul’s not that good,” Chris said quietly, the memories of JD’s attack sneaking in through Darcy’s revelation.

“Ah, but there you’re mistaken,” Darcy said in soft, certain tones. “And ye’ll never convince me otherwise, so you’d best give up tryin’.”

Chris sighed. Stubborn Irishman. Giving his friend an irritated look he said, “All right, you saved my life, healed JD, did all that because I helped out a friend of yours - and you’re not even going to tell me what his name is?”

Darcy shrugged. “His name would mean nothing to ye. Ye only knew him as Inmate Forty-Six.”

Chris sat bolt upright, stunned.

“Ah, so ye do remember,” Darcy said dryly, noting the amazed look on Chris’ face.

Chris nodded. It was all he could do.

“Then ye must also remember what ye did,” Darcy continued, his voice bright and proud and full of respect. “How, while ye were unjustly imprisoned, ye saw a man lyin’ in the prison yard one day, ill and forsaken; how ye saw that pig of a warden beatin’ him, and stepped in, and almost got killed yerself. Ye were beat down, again and again, but ye wouldn’t abandon the fight, and finally the warden left that man alone.”

“I remember,” Chris whispered, still not believing. But it had to be true.

“Now d’ye understand?” Darcy smiled as the sun edged its way higher, and made glowing the land around them. “It was not me kind and generous heart that saved yer friends, but yers, that damnable day. Ye stood up for what ye knew was right, against pain and reason and the laws of common sense. Ye were a hero that day, not just to me friend but to the others watchin’, who took yer example not to remain beaten down, but to stand up for themselves like men. Like you.”

Chris looked down at his saddle, too overcome for a moment to speak.

“Now there’s something ye should know about those men, Chris,” Darcy said in a hushed voice, leaning over so Chris could hear him. “The ones ye set free are telling yer story, and the story of yer brave friends. They’re tellin’ their children, who will tell their children. Remember that, Chris Larabee, the next time yer demons are beatin’ ye, and ye think there’s no reason fer livin’. The reason is this: people need yer strength and yer stories, for when they have none of their own. ”

Chris brought his head back, felt his throat tighten up. He looked at Darcy and shook his head with a scowl, fighting the tears in his eyes. “You Irish are all such goddamn poets.”

Darcy leaned back in his saddle with a laugh and slapped Chris on the arm. “Too much fer yer Yankee heart is it? Then it’s farewell I’m biddin’ ye, Chris Larabee, until I find me way here again.” He held out his hand, and Chris took it. “May ye have warm words on a cold evening, a full moon on a dark night, and the road downhill all the way to yer door.”

Chris paused, let go of Darcy’s hand, felt the sorrow of parting. He struggled with his words for more than a few moments. He was astonished by all that had taken place, thought about everything that had happened, and how it could have ended, except for the man sitting in front of him, and he was the best friend of the man Chris knew only as Inmate Forty-Six. Incredible.

Finally, Chris pressed his emotions to the side long enough to cough and say roughly, “So long, Darcy. Gonna miss you.”

Darcy picked up his reins, smiled in a melancholy way as he set his hat more firmly on his head. “Goodbye, Chris. And don’t worry. Yer demons may be legion, but so are the strengths of yer heart.” He glanced past Chris for a moment, and his smile grew brighter. “And if ye ever doubt it, look over yer shoulder.”

Chris frowned, puzzled, turned in his saddle and looked.

There, on the top of a small rise behind them, a horse and rider stood waiting in the rosy early morning sun, the horse stamping its hooves impatiently and twitching its ears. The rider stared straight at Chris, not moving. It was JD.

As Chris stared, another horse and rider appeared. Buck. Then Vin.

“Look over yer shoulder, Chris Larabee,” Darcy repeated softly as Chris watched the line on the hill grow as Ezra appeared. Then Josiah, Nathan.

“Yer friends know yer heart. And they are legion also.”

  
  


Chris didn’t turn around as he heard the hoofbeats of Darcy’s horse retreat behind him. He knew where his eyes had to stay, and he turned his horse to face the six men riding down the gentle slope to meet him in the warm, luminous morning. And as he spurred his horse towards them, his heart swelled until he thought it would burst out of his chest. They were all there, JD’s mount bouncing him along as if it was as eager to play as JD looked to be. He was smiling, whole, happy. They all looked happy, and as he met them a short distance away Chris realized with a shock that they were riding together. They would all ride home, together.

Vin reached him first, that small grin as always, his hat low, almost covering his eyes. He nodded to Chris. “Mornin’, cowboy.”

Could he talk? Chris cleared his throat, blinked a few times. Damn poets. He looked at Vin, looked at Buck, who was tugging his hat down and smiling, at Ezra, whose face seemed bland, but whose eyes betrayed the emotion that Chris knew - now - was there; at Josiah, whose open face smiled gentle encouragement; at Nathan, as the healer leaned forward in his saddle and nodded soberly in Chris’ direction.

And finally, Chris’ eyes rested on JD, who was smiling in the morning sun, his face flushed and excited, his black hair gleaming beneath that incongruous bowler hat. The eyes had changed some, looked at Chris now with quiet respect and acceptance, no longer starry-eyed idol worship. _God help us. JD is growing up._

Then JD’s smile spread, broke into the enthusiastic grin Chris thought he’d never see again. Growing up, but not too fast. Thank God.

Vin still sat facing Chris, patiently waiting...for what? Chris’ eyes scanned the group again, he cleared his throat once more, and looked each man square in the eye before resting his gaze on Vin. He locked his eyes on the former bounty hunter and asked in a low, raspy voice, “Mind if I join you?”

Vin glanced at the rest of the men, who all looked at Chris, at each other, at Vin. Then, without saying a word, Vin turned his horse back toward Four Corners, and the others around him did the same, Chris squarely in the middle of the group.

Then, with the gentlest of nudges, the men urged their horses forward, to the small rise where Chris had first seen them. As soon as they topped it, JD suddenly reined his horse in, and in response Chris stopped his also, and the other men paused their mounts.

“JD?” Buck asked in concern, turning his eyes to his young friend.

JD was staring ahead, his eyes bright and glistening in the rose-colored air. He was breathing deeply, and when he turned his head, first to Buck, then to Chris, both men saw tears spilling down his cheeks. And he was not ashamed.

We’re together again, JD’s eyes said, and for a second Chris stared at them, not believing how palpable and deep JD’s joy was. It enveloped him, enveloped them all, sheer, unbridled, let-loose-and-yell joy, and as Chris looked at his friends he saw it on their faces too, the same familiar joy, on that beautiful hill, in the glory of the rising sun: we’re riding together again, united and unassailable. Things are set right at last.

Then JD urged his horse forward, and Chris followed him, and the others rode after, the thunder of their horses’ hooves blending into the morning air, solid and strong and so right that Chris felt a catch in his breath, felt so free and unshackled he thought for a moment he might break into song. He almost laughed at the thought, but then he heard, over the hills behind them, a strong Irish voice lifted to the top of the mountains, singing to the robust sky. The others heard it too, and smiled, but Chris alone caught the words that were sung, and carried them in his heart:

  
  


“The minstrel boy shall return again,

When we hear the news we will cheer it.

The minstrel boy shall return again,

Torn perhaps in body, not in spirit.

And then may he play his harp in peace,

In a world as heaven has intended

When all the works of war shall cease

And every battle must be ended.”

  
  


And rode with his friends, all the way to his door.

  
  


The End

  
  



End file.
